Contagion - A Zombielock (BBC Sherlock FanFiction)
by SuperlockianHobbit
Summary: A strange form of the influenza is spreading around London. When assigned an especially interesting case, Sherlock is determined to get to the bottom of it. As Sherlock continues to work on the case, John notices that Sherlock seems much paler than usual and is receiving strange scabs along his arms and legs. Will John save Sherlock before it's too late?
1. Influenza

_"Breaking news: A new form of the swine flu has arisen. While many scientists are left baffled with this strange outbreak, many have already gotten to work on an antidote. Many first-stage symptoms are the ones of a common cold. But don't be fooled, for that's only the beginning. Only 2 to 3 days after diagnosis, the disease progresses into the more advanced stages of the virus which consist of symptoms such as violent coughing, trouble breathing and tightening of airways, terrible stomach aches, constant migraines, and strange bulges appearing along the scalp. At this point it is highly recommended that those infected are taken into quarantine to prevent further spreading of the virus. Many are advised to remain indoors or to wear protective gear such as face masks and clothing which covers as much skin as possible when heading out. This is Walt Batlerman reporting from NBN2, and I wish you a healthy week. Now, let's move onto-"_ John Watson pressed the off button on the T.V. remote a bit too harshly, tossing the darn thing onto the nearby loveseat.

"This will be a bloody fine week." The army doctor hissed under his breath, and adjusted his position on the recliner he sat in. Right then Sherlock casually strolled into the room.

He was wearing a tight black t-shirt as well as corresponding loose jeans and socks. His brown curls were partially matted to his head and were glistening with water, indicating that he had just taken a shower. The detective walked past John and grabbed John's laptop off of the table, despite the fact that his own was just a few inches away. John opened his mouth to say something, but he closed it as Sherlock plopped in his chair across from the recliner John sat it. The detective opened the laptop and waited a moment for it to startup. A few moments of silence passed before Sherlock was typing away furiously at what John guessed was an email.

"New case," the detective finally said, confirming John's thoughts. The ex-army doctor raised his eyebrows inquisitively, but then glanced at the detective and then outside the window at the gray and gloomy sky, "Lestrade wants to start working on it first thing tomorrow." Sherlock finished, not looking up from the laptop at all throughout this entire time.

"You do realize there's been an outbreak of that new influenza virus, and any sort of work being done outside-"

"Will leave me prone to the virus? Pfft, hogwash." The detective interjected. John furrowed his eyebrows together and pursed his lips.

"Sherlock," John said, his tone serious and commanding. Sherlock finally looked up and his mesmerizing eyes met John's. The army doctor was taken by surprise with Sherlock's sudden attention to him and the man was at lost for words for a moment before he cleared his throat and continued, "This isn't some mere cold one could catch. There were extreme cases where many even died, and I've dealt with some of them. This isn't some joke."

"You worry too much," Sherlock chuckled and flashed John his signature grin, "You know that I don't bother about these things. I'm practically immune." With this response John tensed up and frowned. Sherlock obviously didn't care, or didn't listen to what John had just said about the disease.

"Immune, my arse." John muttered under his breath and looked away from Sherlock. When the detective cleared his throat John looked back to see that Sherlock was looking at him with a colder manner; he had heard the remark. John didn't muster up an apology and simply stared back at Sherlock. The two didn't exchange words but their stares carried enough messages to the point where they both looked away awkwardly. "At least get a vaccination." John offered, his tone less serious and more pleading in some aspect. Sherlock didn't look up from the laptop and didn't say anything in response either.

The doctor rolled his eyes and rose from the recliner, heading over to the kitchen to set the water to boil. After the water had grown hot, John pulled a cup from the above cupboards and placed it near the kettle. He considered making something for Sherlock, and as much as he didn't want to due to the detective's attitude, he pulled out another cup anyways. John grabbed a nearby can containing the black coffee of the household and he dumped one spoon in Sherlock's cup and one into his own. He poured some boiled water into both cups and then dropped two sugars into Sherlock's coffee and none into his own.

To conclude, he set both cups aside to cool off for a moment as John then leaned back against the counter and found some sudden interest in a certain piece of china in the cabinets.

"I'll consider it." Sherlock called out suddenly, disrupting John's train of thought. The doctor batted at eye at the detective sitting in the living room. He had placed the laptop to the side and was leaning forward, staring intently at John.

"What?"

"The vaccination. I'll consider it. Although I must say that eating apples and taking vitamin pills should suffice." Sherlock added. John saw the ghost of a grin on Sherlock's face and he himself felt the corners of his lips lift for some unknown reason.

"Sounds good. And you haven't touched an apple in weeks, more or less the vitamin pills, so don't even suggest that solution." The doctor stated in response, chuckling.

John grabbed the two cups after they had cooled off and walked back into the living room. He handed Sherlock's his coffee and John placed his on a nearby stool as he relaxed back into the recliner, only then grabbing the cup again. He brought it up to his lips and savored the bitter, yet rejuvenating taste. Sherlock simply stared down at his coffee, his eyes searching the pool of black liquid.

"Something wrong? Black. Two sugars. Just how you like it." John stated, taking another sip of his coffee as he watched Sherlock curiously. The detective didn't stir in his seat but just continued to stare down at the coffee. Only after a minute or two passed this Sherlock snap out of his thoughts and look up at John blankly.

"Good." Sherlock stated, his voice and gaze distant, and placed the cup onto the table in-between the two men. John pondered over Sherlock's strange behavior for a moment before realizing that the detective had gotten up and had begun to pull his trench coat on. Sherlock wrapped his dark blue-gray scarf around his neck and avoided John's disapproving gaze as he came back by the doctor to grab his phone.

"And where are you off to? Where's your face mask or whatever you use to cover up your mouth and nose?" John demanded calmly, his eyebrows furrowed. Sherlock opened the flat door and stepped out without a response. Only when he peeked back in and stared directly at John did he reply.

"Told you already. New case," Sherlock stated, and disappeared again. John turned away from the door and sighed, flailing his arms in frustration. Just then Sherlock leaned into the flat once again, causing John to grow slightly startled but then recover and flash Sherlock a glare, "Ah yes, and I never used any sort of cover or mask. So don't fuss about me forgetting it." And with that, the detective left the flat. John gaped at the door even after it closed after Sherlock.


	2. Outbreak

John didn't even wait until he heard Sherlock's footsteps descending down the stairs when he barged through the door and ran out into the hall.  
"God dammit Sherlock!" John shouted, practically leaping down the stairs. The tall man had already reached the door and motioned to open it until the sudden shouts of his blogger interrupted him. Sherlock looked behind him to see John running towards him.  
"What now?" Sherlock groaned, "I've got a case, John."  
"You said Lestrade wanted to start on it first thing tomorrow. Now, you aren't going anywhere until you tell me your actual destination." John argued.  
"Or what?" Sherlock scoffed. John pursed his lips tightly and harshly tugged his coat off the coat rack nearby without breaking eye contact with the taller man.  
"Or else I'm coming with you." Sherlock scowled and glared at John for a moment before he quickly dashed out of the door. John cursed and ran after the man but stopped short at the door leading outside into the contaminated air. Sherlock dashed to the curb and hailed a cab before John was able to protest. In a mere few seconds, the detective was gone. John grit his teeth, slammed the door shut, and started to stomp up the stairs.

"I do appreciate you taking up the case earlier than asked, but it would've been nicer if you had at least called or notified me of your choice." Greg Lestrade stated tiredly. Sherlock simply nodded.  
The detective pursed his lips tightly and crouched closer to the corpse. The woman was obviously beautiful before the bugs got to her. High cheekbones, flawless complexion, naturally blonde, hourglass figure and toned body. There was nothing physically wrong with the woman. Sherlock's eyes scanned her hot pink blouse and knee-length skirt, as well as her bare arms and legs. He caught a glimpse of a gold band around the woman's ring finger with a small silver gem planted in the center. Immediately the detective's brain whizzed to life and the deductions came.  
"I thought you said this was an interesting case?" Sherlock groaned and stood up, glaring at a frustrated Lestrade. Greg scratched his head and stared at the pale, well-dressed woman sprawled on the ground in front of them, a swarm of flies already eating away at her ear cartilage and tongue. "Dead six days. 34 years old. Married. Is a lawyer. Has two dogs and one cat. One child, around 12 to 14 years old."  
"Reason of death?" Greg asked, choosing to ask how Sherlock got the information from a mere glance at the corpse later.  
"No obvious aberrations of any sort. Perfect job. Married, a child, and pets. Obviously there's something from the past that haunts her in her mind that has become difficult to cope with. The only solution is suicide." Sherlock yawned.  
"Doctors that has examined her state that she didn't take in anything toxic in the last 24 hours. No pills, no abnormalities, no history of anything strange. Perfect health." Greg countered. Sherlock cleared his throat uneasily and shook his head, trying to regain an understanding of the situation from another aspect.  
"Homicide. Jealous co-worker."  
"There are no suspects." Lestrade stated. The detective stared at his colleague, baffled.  
"What?" Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows furrowed and his voice faltering for a moment before he regained his original expression, "No suspects? Are you _mad_?"  
"We checked her background. She's an orphan. Biological parents died in an accident when she was barely a year old. She never had an actual family except for her own. She was happily married for 15 years. Has 1 child from the marriage. Husband and child deceased. Husband died in a train crash last year, while the child died recently from the strange disease going around. " Lestrade said. Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.  
"Obviously suicide now. Too much to cope with, so death is the solution. She probably took something with her food for a couple of months now that could come across as simple medications or even simple things such as sweeteners or pain killers. Something that wouldn't come across as suspicious or strange, but normal. She was slowly killing herself on the inside over the course of time." Sherlock offered, his voice less certain now. Strange, the detective always had at least 10 solutions at the top of his head. He couldn't come up with 1 or 2 at the given moment.  
"Already told you. Tests taken on the spot showed nothing wrong."  
"Run more tests then. Take the body or samples to Bart's."  
"Sherlock! Come on. Cooperate." Lestrade demanded, his eyes disapproving. Sherlock stifled a groan, but then a strange wave of pain overcame his head and the detective gripped his temples. "Woah, you alright there?" Greg asked, his expression softer now.  
"I'm..." Sherlock rubbed his temples uneasily and shut his eyes tightly, trying to regain his balance and thoughts, "...fine."  
"You sure? Did you by any chance get the vaccination for that strange hell of a virus going around?" Lestrade questioned, clearly concerned.  
"N-No..." Sherlock managed to say through clenched teeth.  
"That explains a lot. Go on and get one then! This thing isn't a joke. I got the shot right when word spread around that something was in the air," Greg continued, "Come on, go. I'll even hold the case for you until you get the shot." Sherlock shook his head, though that resulted in a larger wave of pain. The detective yelped and teetered to the side.  
"Lestrade, I really...don't-"  
"Taxi!" Greg shouted before Sherlock could protest. The older man firmly grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him to the curb of the nearby road. In a few seconds a cab appeared and the door swung open. Lestrade ushered the detective into the cab and Sherlock stared up at him, his gaze distant and his eyes glazed over.  
"Go back home. Ask John to take you to a clinic. Please. Do that for me, will you? Don't come back until you do." Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but the cab door was already shut and the detective's head was ringing loudly.  
"Address?" The cabby asked in a gruff manner.  
"22...1...B...Baker Street, " Sherlock slurred. God, his head hurt. It was annoying; he couldn't think. With the roar of an engine, the cab took off into the crowded streets.

John had finished drinking a cup of tea when the flat door burst open and Sherlock trudged inside, his appearance unsettling. His scarf was wrapped really loosely around the tall man's neck, and his trench coat collar was turned up in only some places. His appearance resembled that of a drunk man's. It was strange seeing Sherlock Holmes acting like a drunk man, though John noticed how deathly pale the detective was before the whole issue seemed funny.  
"Bloody hell Sherlock, what happened?" John rose from the recliner and approached his flat mate carefully.  
"N-Nothing. Just a f-f-fever and head-headache. It'll pa-pass." The detective managed to sputter before he collapsed on the couch, completely passed out. He hadn't even managed to take the time to take off his coat and scarf.  
"Jesus Christ. We need to get you to a clinic."  
"N-No...John...please...no...I-I'm fine. Just tired." Sherlock trailed off, covering his eyes with his elbow and arm, waving the doctor off with his other hand sloppily.  
"'Fine', my bum. Get up." John commanded. Sherlock didn't stir, and after a moment his breathing grew slower. His chest rose up and down slowly, in the pace of someone who was sleeping. "Oh bother." The doctor clenched his fists and headed to his room upstairs, slamming the flat door shut behind him before he sprawled onto the large queen bed and thought for a moment as the news report crawled back into his head.  
'_Many first-stage symptoms are the ones of a common cold. But don't be fooled, for that's only the beginning. Only 2 to 3 days after diagnosis, the disease progresses into the more advanced stages of the virus which consist of symptoms such as violent coughing, trouble breathing and tightening of airways, terrible stomach aches, constant migraines, and strange bulges appearing along the scalp._'  
John shook the report out of his head uneasily and stared at his flat door. He thought about his friend lying on the couch in the room downstairs and his condition. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe it was just a mild headache. Maybe he just wasn't feeling well. Or maybe he just caught a small bug. If anything, John was a doctor; he could manage the strange outbreak.  
_It'll just pass, don't worry. _John reassured himself, and with that, he drifted off to sleep.


	3. Dinner

John awoke to a sunlight-filled room. The army doctor stretched and groaned. He rose and glanced at this bedside table to see that his clock stated it was still early in the morning. Thank God it was the weekend though.  
The doctor proceeded with his daily morning routine and once he was freshly-showered and had his teeth brushed he climbed down the stairs and into the flat. Sherlock wasn't on the couch, but was on John's laptop just like yesterday, typing away madly. He seemed much better and the sight was quite strange. It's like the Sherlock that burst into the flat yesterday had never existed.  
"Good morning." The detective said casually. John returned the greeting and headed to the kitchen, adjusting his shirt. He set the water to boil only to see that two steaming cups of tea already stood next to the kettle. John eyed the two cups strangely as he slowly turned the heat on the stove off.  
"You made tea?" John asked, shocked. He raised his eyebrows and he turned his head around to stare at Sherlock as the taller man typed away on the laptop.  
"Yes. Why do you ask? Something wrong with it?" The detective shouted in response.  
"Er, no...just a bit strange, that's all." John replied.  
"What, the tea?"  
"_No!_ That you _made _the tea!"  
"Did I make it wrong?" John rolled his eyes, aggravated.  
"It's just different that you actually brewed tea for once. Last time that happened was-"  
"I get it."  
John rolled his eyes again and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Sure you do." John stated, and began to laugh. He saw that Sherlock had looked up from the laptop and was staring at the him with a new gleam in his eyes. The detective was smiling, and the action reached his eyes rather than only his cheeks.  
He was clearly better. The memory of Sherlock from yesterday was practically gone from John's mind. Things seemed hopeful once more.

It was already 2 in the afternoon, and the two flatmates found themselves watching the telly, despite the dreadful programs airing at the time.  
Sherlock was sitting curled up on the couch, staring intensely at the T.V. screen with his arms wrapped around his legs, keeping them against his chest. Some program called 'Spel teh Wurd' was on, the whole show being about spelling correctly (ironically). It was so ridiculous that Sherlock was getting a migraine, as well as John. But the two made a bet about who could last the longest watching crap telly, so they were both forced to keep watching. And neither were in the mood to give the other individual 6 pounds if they were to fail.  
Sadly, the commercial break had ended and the horribly-animated intro to the show flashed on the screen, the colors contrasting against each other rather than complimenting each other.  
"Welcome again, ladies and gentlemen!" the host of the show greeted, flashing the camera a yellow smile. A chorus of fake cheers and whoops played in the background. "I'd like to introduce you to William McAbee, our new contestant!" Another round of cheers recorded all the way from the 50's played once more. "Come on out, William!"  
From behind the cheap prop set an extremely tall and slender man emerged and ran onto the center of the dirty stage. He was wearing a pair of thick glasses, and his skin was so oily that it reflected the light of the studio. He had an extreme hunch, and when he smiled and waved at the non-existent crowd, John and Sherlock shivered in unison. The man had such yellow teeth that it was nearly the same color as gold. Visible specks of food and other substances were scattered over the teeth as well, like patchwork. Before both Sherlock and John bent over to vomit, the man closed his mouth and pushed his glasses further onto his hooked nose with his long and crooked finger. The man turned his back to the camera and walked behind a stand that resembled a marble pedestal.  
"Tell us about yourself, Will!" the spokesman said, forcing a tight smile at the unhygienic man. His expression was one that said 'kill me now, please'.  
"Well," the creepy man adjusted his shirt collar, although it still remained crooked. His voice was squeaky and it cracked twice with the simple saying of the word; it resembled a boy in the peaks of his pubescent years, "I come from Wales. I have a wife and three beautiful girls: Alice, Jade, and Catherine. I-"  
"Lies," Sherlock hissed and gritted his teeth, "Lies, lies, _LIES_!" the detective hissed.  
"Obviously." John added, his eyes not leaving the screen.  
"He lives with his mother in Hammersmith and has no wife or kids. He's 39, though has the health and physical state of someone that is 52. He has the uncanny resemblance of a sociopath with an extreme porn addiction." Sherlock deducted, his eyes scanning the T.V. screen, despite the horror of a man looking back at him. John remained silence and continued watching. The introductions had ended, and the game was actually starting.  
"Alright. Spell '_pterodactyl_', William." Sherlock scoffed and spelled it out in a second.  
"This snail won't be able to get the first four letters." the consulting detective stated. William sniffed and cleared his throat. He then slowly started to spell out the word.  
"P-T-E-R-O-D-A-C-T-Y-L." Will spelled. Sherlock's mouth drooped open in disbelief for a moment before his expression grew blank again.  
"That is correct! The next word is '_dinosaur_'."  
"D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R."  
"Correct. Alright, last word of the round is _'idiot_'." John chuckled.  
"A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N." Sherlock spelled as Will spelled 'idiot'. John burst out laughing while Sherlock simply stared at his friend, grinning like a mad man, his eyes bright with laughter. John tried to talk, but left the effort be when more giggles erupted from him whenever he opened his mouth. Finally when the two men had calmed down Sherlock grabbed the remote and switched the T.V. off. He leaned forward a bit and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a worn leather wallet.  
"Take the damn money. I can't stand this sad excuse of a show." the detective said as he tossed a few crumpled notes at John, who gawked at his flatmate in utter disbelief.  
"Sherlock Holmes gave up? I ought to write this down in a history book." John chuckled, and handed Sherlock back his money. "Oh, take it. That was an unfair bet. If I had to stare at Will for another second I would've lost my breakfast. Besides, that remark about Anderson was genius." The consulting detective smirked and took back his money. He then practically leaped off the couch, heading towards John's laptop once more.  
"Got plans for tonight?" Sherlock directed towards John, his back facing him. The doctor's mouth drooped open for a moment before he recollected himself once more.  
"I-erm-no. Why?" John asked, trying to sound casual, but curiosity and suspicion had managed to slip in.  
"I was thinking we could go to Angelo's. For dinner. You busy?" John grew red at the offer. Sure, it would be nice, but the first time he met Sherlock and the two had gone to the same restaurant, people got the wrong idea.  
"Oh..." John trailed off. He pondered on the offer for a moment, but then realizing he had paused for a moment too long and automatically replied, "Sure." Sherlock turned around on his heel and flashed John a crooked grin.  
"It's a date, then." Sherlock stated casually as he disappeared into his room.  
"Yes-Wait, _what?!_" John furrowed his eyebrows and leaped off the couch, trailing after Sherlock to his room. The detective was looking over some papers on his desk but looked up at John when he sensed him in the doorway.  
"What? Isn't that what people say whenever they make plans together?" Sherlock asked obliviously. John couldn't help but sneer.  
"No...not exactly. At least, not when two _friends_ are making plans."  
"Oh, you people with your strange slang and words." Sherlock looked back down at his papers and waved John off, frustrated. The army doctor crinkled his nose in discomfort and left the room quickly. He headed up to his own flat and began to dig through his drawers for no reason or motives whatsoever. He wanted to get his mind off the awkward situation with Sherlock. Was the detective really as oblivious to the matter or was he pretending? For one, John knew Sherlock wouldn't have reacted in frustration or anger if he was unaware of what saying 'it's a date' would actually mean, but would actually ponder over it in curiosity or just brush off the whole matter. Something was up with his flatmate, John was sure of it.

At exactly 5:25, Sherlock burst into John's flat, a bit out of breath.  
"You still heading to dinner with me?" the detective asked flatly. John shifted uncomfortably in his spot and cleared his throat uneasily.  
"Er, um, ye-"  
"Good. Then start getting ready. The reservation is at 6, _sharp_. So if we are not to be late, we both have exactly 3 minutes to get dressed and 2 minutes to get outside to start hailing a cab. Given that it's already late in the afternoon, there's going to be quite a bit of traffic on Warren Street and Euston Square, which will give us about a 20 to 25-minutes delay. Thus, we should make it with at least 4 to 2 minutes to spare. _Only _if we stay on course with the schedule," Sherlock paused for a moment and eyed John strangely, "So go on, chop chop!" the detective said with sudden enthusiasm, and ran off down to his own flat. John stared at the door as if Sherlock were still there. A minute had passed before he realized that he had limited time to change. John sprung into action and began to busy himself with choosing a decent jumper and pair of pants to wear.  
At 5:28 John grabbed a pair of his blue jeans and started tugging them on, starting to hop out of his room in the process.  
"Dammit, dammit, _dammit._" John grunted as he tried to pull the pants over his right leg.  
"John?" Sherlock beckoned from the main floor.  
"Co...ming." the army doctor bellowed and hopped down the stairs with one leg, the other being hard to cooperate with.  
"John, it is 5:29, we are one bloody minute off schedule. I'm coming upstairs." Sherlock announced, and a series of footsteps echoed up the stairwell.  
"_NO! _Sherlock, I repeat, _STOP, NO!_" John cried, and accidentally missed the last step. He lost his balance and toppled face-first onto the ground, his pants still not all the way on. A pain started near the doctor's nose and arms and just then Sherlock finally reached the second floor.  
"_What the bloody hell John._" Sherlock stated more than asked, baffled. John grunted and turned onto his side. Only now did his pant leg choose to cooperate and it slid on with ease. The doctor leaped up and quickly pulled his jeans up the rest of the way, buttoning them with his back facing Sherlock. John felt his face grow hot, and he presumed that it was crimson in shade by this point.  
John turned around, avoiding Sherlock's wide eyes, and he simply brushed past his flatmate and started down the stairs. This was going to be a long evening.  
Sherlock finally came down to the landing as well. He was wearing his purple shirt that was just a bit tight over the chest, John noticed, and his hair was messy in a good way. The detective remained silent as he pulled on his gray trench coat and tied his signature scarf around his neck, his eyebrows furrowed as if he were deep in thought. John didn't say a word as he himself pulled on his jacket and pulled out a face mask from the pocket. He pulled the strap back and secured the mask to his mouth. He silently offered Sherlock a mask without meeting his eyes, but the detective refused.  
"I told you that I don't wear protective wear of any sort. This thing going around is just some version of the flu, nothing to fret about." Sherlock said flatly and eyed the door. John sighed heavily and opened the door, stepping out into the fresh air. There was a light breeze, and the sky was an unsettling gray. Despite the virus hanging in the air, the outdoors were a reassuring sight for John. Sherlock was hanging by the curb, waving his hand in the air frantically. John checked his watch to see that it was already 5:31. One minute behind schedule once more, since the two men were already supposed to be in a cab by this time.  
At that moment, a cab pulled by the curb and Sherlock opened the door, sliding into the vehicle. John followed suit and shut the door.  
"Destination?" the cabby asked tiredly. He was only in his early twenties, with a severe acne problem.  
"Angelo's." Sherlock replied blankly, gazing out the window. John looked out the other window and studied the few people walking by. Every single one was wearing at least a face mask or cover, some even wearing nose plugs or strange transparent masks that covered their whole face. There wasn't a single person that wasn't wearing any cover of any sort besides Sherlock.  
The cab engine roared to life quite louder than normal, and the whole vehicle shook twice or three times as the engine sputtered for a moment. A black cloud of exhaust became visible from the side as John studied the others walking by.  
"How old is this thing?" the doctor directed towards the cabby without thought.  
"LTI TX1. 1998 model. 176, 341 miles." the cabby responded almost immediately as the cab started to drive away from the curb.  
"When was the last time you had the car and engine checked out?" John asked.  
"2 years and 9 months ago exactly. The radiator's in bad state and I'm running on 3 cylinders rather than 4, but this baby's still going so no worries. Don't have the money right now to fix it anyways." the cabby answered casually. Even Sherlock turned and stared at the cabby in shock, but rather than saying anything he turned to look out of the window again.  
"Dear God." John muttered to himself. The cab drove down the street and made a U-turn at a street light, nearly hitting a semi in the action. Now both Sherlock and John sat tensely in their seats.  
"Sorry 'bout that. Thought it might have gone smoother than it did." the cabby said casually as he roughly maneuvered his way past two slow SUV's.  
"Jesus Christ." Sherlock hissed as he gripped the hand hold and lurched from side to side in sync with the cab's frenzied movements. John gripped the hand hold as well and stared out the window with wide eyes.

The cab had finally arrived at Angelo's, and John and Sherlock practically jumped out of the cab and slammed the doors shut in unison. Sherlock pulled out the wad of notes he had gotten back from John and tossed it in the passenger seat, slamming the shut after him. The cab sped away and the two men watched as it passed a few cars going slower than it, the screeching of tires coming into earshot.  
"Remind me to never get in a cab with a cab driver who looks less than 30 years old." Sherlock stated, taking in a deep breath and re-adjusting his coat collar. The two men looked up and scanned the shops and restaurants on the block. Finally the sign saying 'Angelo's' came into view a few feet down, and Sherlock bounded towards it. He stopped right beside the entryway and waited. John stood next to the taller man and stared up at him, puzzled.  
"It's only 5:57." Sherlock stated, although he didn't have a watch.  
"How would you know that?" John asked, his eyebrows furrowed. He saw Sherlock take a breath and expected a string of deductions to come from the man's mouth, but instead Sherlock replied, "I saw a clock through the window of a shop we passed by." John couldn't help but laugh and shake his head. He received a look from Sherlock but the detective looked away once more. After the 3 minutes had passed Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and pulled him into the restaurant. The two brushed past the door and were greeted by a partially-full restaurant. A plump and short man stood by a counter where a bunch of papers and notepads lay, as well as a large and old cash register. He recognized Sherlock and John immediately and waddled over to them.  
"Hello Sherlock and John! Long time no see!" the man John recognized as Angelo greeted. John smiled and Sherlock remained expressionless.  
"Good evening to you too, Angelo. I had a reservation for myself and John at 6:00 today." Sherlock stated. Angelo nodded his head and rushed behind the counter, flipping through the notepad a few times before he trailed his finger down a list and stopped at 'Holmes for 2'.  
"Ah, yes, here it is. Go on and pick your table, someone will come to take your orders shortly. The meal's on the house!" Angelo said, smiling warmly at the two. Sherlock managed a quick smile and John thanked the man before the two went and chose a table in the less populated area of the restaurant, which was near the back window. A few minutes later the two men were settled and were looking over a menu. Sherlock placed his down in a mere minute and received a look from John.  
"Not hungry." the detective announced nonchalantly.  
"You need to eat _something_. It helps keep one energized, and besides, it's a better alternative to coffee." John said.  
"Would you look at that, Doctor Watson's in the house." Sherlock jeered, his face still blank and his demeanor the same.  
"I'm serious, at least order a salad." John replied, unscathed by Sherlock's remark. The detective groaned and picked up the menu from the side of table once more and scanned through it hastily. After a few seconds passed the detective placed the menu down again and pulled out his phone. He started scrolling through the contents of the small device with a blank expression. John paid no mind until he realized that every single person in the restaurant was doing everything _but _sitting on their phones, whether it was talking to someone or looking around the place.  
"Sherlock," John muttered under his breath, trying to get his friend's attention. Sherlock's eyes perked up and met John's gaze, "put the phone away." the doctor continued, looking around casually to see that no one was listening or looking in their direction.  
"Why? Isn't that what people do nowadays, use their phones practically everywhere?"  
"No, well, yes, but not in a restaurant. And since when do you want to be like other people?" John asked, still looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.  
"It's one thing to act like other people, and it's a whole other idea to be like them."  
"Doesn't matter, just put the phone away." John said, aggravated. Sherlock groaned loudly but obeyed and slid the phone back into his pocket. Right at that moment a waitress approached the table and flashed the two men a pearly white smile, but her eyes hovered on Sherlock despite the fact that the detective paid her no mind.  
"May I take your order?" she chimed, her voice a bit higher than John preferred.  
"Caesar salad." Sherlock stated boringly. The waitress' smile faltered a bit at Sherlock's lack of amusement and she turned to John a bit less enthusiastic.  
"I'll take the 'Spaghetti e Salsa Rossa'." John told the waitress, trying to put in an accent to impress her. The attempt failed and she simply nodded and wrote down the order. John frowned and found some sudden interest in his watch, toying around with the various buttons on the side until the waitress walked off.  
"That was pathetic." Sherlock chuckled and placed his elbows on the table, his hands supporting his chin. John glanced up at the detective and eyed him furiously.  
"Oh, shut up. At least I don't wave off every chance I get when it comes to having a relationship." John countered and studied the others in the restaurant, avoiding Sherlock's gaze as the humor drained out of it.  
"I don't _need_ relationships." Sherlock hissed, "I don't rely on other people unlike _some_." the detective said menacingly and glared at John, directing the whole statement at the man.  
"Of course, because socially isolated aliens like you don't need those sorts of things." John said, though regretted the words immediately once they came out of his mouth. That had come out more harsh than the doctor intended it to. Sherlock's cold stare faltered for a moment as hurt took its place, and the guilt arose in John like a life vest in water. The army doctor cleared his throat uneasily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, I-"  
"I've heard enough." the detective interjected, his deep voice dull and expressionless. He stared at his glass of water with his lips pursed tightly. John sighed heavily and waved his hand in the air.  
"Waiter!" he called, and the woman which had come to take their orders walked appeared. She forced a smile onto her face and eyed John.  
"Yes?"  
"I'd like one glass of Scotch, please."  
"Of course, I'll bring it right away." the woman ran off before John had a chance to thank her. She returned with a small-medium cup filled with an orange liquid on her tray. She placed it beside John's fork and left once more. John picked up the glass and took a long sip of the bitter liquid. He glanced at Sherlock to see that the detective was staring at John with a blank expression in his face and eyes. John grew uncomfortable but began to stare back at the other man. Sherlock was the one to finally look away and he fixed his eyes on a short man approaching the two with two plates in his hands, a candle tucked in-between one of his fingers.  
The man set down a plate of spaghetti with meatballs covered with a thick and rich red sauce. Sherlock's salad consisted of six large identical pieces of lettuce sprinkled lightly with shredded cheese and ranch. Two to four tiny shrimps were tossed around the unoccupied part of the plate.  
"Enjoy your meal, gentlemen." the waiter said warmly as he placed the simple candle in-between Sherlock and John and lit it.  
"Er, what is this?" John asked the waiter, gesturing to the candle.  
"For your date, of course!" The waiter bellowed and flashed John a wide smile. John felt himself growing hot, the redness creeping up from around the side of his neck.  
"We-We aren't a coup-"  
"Once again, enjoy your meal." The waiter completely ignored John and walked away quickly. John leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips, taking another long swig of Scotch, savoring the taste despite how foul it actually was.  
"Why'd you want to come here, Sherlock?" John whispered, staring at the candle in-between them. The detective didn't reply for a long time, he only picked at one of the shrimp. Finally he set the fork down and looked up at John with his mesmerizing eyes.  
"I felt guilty about yesterday, so I wanted to apologize. But now I regret coming here." Sherlock replied nonchalantly, though spat out the last sentence at John, "To think that I would ever let emotions and people interfere with me again. Big mistake." the detective continued, though was now staring at his cup of water, stirring the ice cubes around with the end of his knife. John felt his own guilt grow in size, and it stayed there like a weight in his chest. _'Again_'?  
"I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean for my remark to come out like it did."  
"Oh, whatever. No big deal." Sherlock waved the matter away, his voice still cold, but his expression eased. John gave up all further attempts and started to gobble his food down, only just realizing how hungry he actually was.  
After the two ate to their limits, both pushed away their plates and took a deep breath, almost in unison. At that exact moment the waitress appeared with a tray and the check, placed the leather notepad down, and scooped up both plates and cups in two quick motions.  
"Thanks." John muttered as she walked away. He took the check and glanced at the cost. He pulled out his wallet and stuffed the necessary amount of money into the black notepad along and shut it. He tossed a note onto the table as a tip and motioned to get out of his chair when Sherlock got out of his seat and headed towards the coat rack and exit without waiting for the doctor. John pushed his chair in and bounded towards his coat, hoisting it off the hook and pulling it onto himself. The two left without a word and stepped into the cold evening breeze. John had pulled his face mask on and eyed Sherlock as the detective seemed to grow uneasy.  
John went to the curb and hailed a cab by the time Sherlock recollected himself and stood by his side. A newer cab approached the two men and they slid inside.

Once the two were at Baker Street again, Sherlock retired to his room and didn't come out. John followed suit and shut the door to his own flat and leaped face-first onto his bed like some tired child. A few hours passed and John fell asleep, but was awakened by the playing of a violin. The army doctor listened to the depressing song for a few minutes and then couldn't help but get up and creep down to the flat beneath his. He leaned against the doorway and listened intently. He stared at Sherlock as the tall man stood by the window playing, his eyes closed and the moonlight covering his from head to waist. It was a strange, but relaxing, visual to have.  
"Were those flowers on your trousers?" Sherlock suddenly asked, his hand having stopped moving, thus stopping the music. John grew tense at Sherlock's sudden awareness of him, and was left baffled by the question.  
"What?" the doctor asked, his eyebrows furrowed.  
"When you fell-"  
"Oh..." John recalled the whole scenario which he was trying to forget, "_Oh._" Sherlock was silent, and John realized he still hadn't answered the question. "Erm, no, actually," the army doctor felt strange discussing the images that were on his _trousers _with his flatmate, "they were circus tents." As if that didn't seem more ridiculous.  
Sherlock's deep-voiced laugh rang out around the room, and John couldn't help but join in.


	4. Discovery

John and Sherlock filed out of the flat the next day, bounding down the stairs. The case Sherlock had went to glance at two days ago was dismissed, for further labwork showed that the reason of the woman's death was indeed because of the disease spreading around. Instead, a new case had arisen, and this time, all current 6 victims had traces of a rare venom within their systems. And as usual, Sherlock was called in to help with the issue.  
Sherlock had received a vaccination for the strange virus, at John's command, earlier that day. John himself got the shot just so that Sherlock wouldn't whine that he was the only one getting it, and the two left the clinic satisfied in some aspect. John ditched the face mask, for he had received two vaccinations, as Sherlock had only gotten one and still refused to wear any protective wear.  
Sherlock hailed a cab, and one quickly pulled by the curb. Sherlock and John slid into their seats and cabbie asked for the destination.  
"Bart's Hospital." Sherlock replied, and the cab took off.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the first corpse's pale sickeningly pale face and torso. John felt around the arms and feet, feeling for cysts and general bumps. After he had finished, he moved onto the next five corpses lying side by side.  
Lestrade and Molly Hooper stood in the background, alternating between small talk and observing Sherlock and John as they eyed the corpses.  
"Any aberrations, John?" Sherlock asked as he poked the eyeball of the third corpse. Molly shuddered.  
"No, all in good to excellent health. Nothing seemingly wrong with them." John responded after checking the toe of the fourth corpse. Sherlock backed away from the 6 corpses lying by one another and he studied them from the side.  
"Six victims. All killed on consecutive days. No relations of any sort with one another whatsoever. All from different social groups and all different class rankings." Sherlock reviewed the information Lestrade had told him with his eyebrows furrowed.  
"They're all from Canterbury," John noted, also reviewing the information, "From around the same town - Chestfield." Sherlock turned around and glanced at John, pondering on this. He nodded and his eyes scanned the people once more, his gaze calculating.  
"Woman killed first. Man second. Third victim was a man once more. Fourth victim woman. Fifth a man. Sixth a woman." the detective continued on reviewing aloud.  
"Three of each gender. Could mean something."  
"Could mean nothing. Or at least not make a difference of any sort." Sherlock stated, surveying the people's faces. "There's a reason these people were killed," he stepped towards the third corpse - a man with light brown skin and thick black hair, "I need to know why." he continued as if talking to the corpse.  
"There's some order or pattern of deaths, don't you have the simplest idea?" John asked, studying Sherlock. The detective perked up at this question and glared at Molly.  
"How are these corpses arranged?" Sherlock directed towards the smaller woman. She shifted uncomfortably in her spot and licked her lips.  
"Er, by alphabetical order. First names."  
"Tell me the names." Molly approached the corpses. She pointed to the first one.  
"That's Antonia Wells," she pointed to the second corpse, "That' Blake Boj," she pointed to the third, "Daniel Gungrifi," she gestured to the fourth, fifth, and sixth ones, "Emily Otu, Martin Ym, and Sofia Zuplez."  
"Simple descriptions for each one." Sherlock stated more than asked.  
"Antonia Wells. French-Italian. 33 years old. No former children or spouse. Lawyer." Antonia Wells was a woman with full lips, a small nose, and tan skin. Her glossy black hair lay sprawled around her.  
"Blake Boj. Canadian-American. Has two children and a deceased wife. 48 years old. Doctor." Blake Boj had unreasonably pale skin (beside the fact he was dead), short pepper-and-salt hair, and a hooked nose.  
"Daniel Gungrifi. Iranian-American. One child and step-wife. Former wife deceased. 39 years old. Engineer." Daniel Gungrifi was a man with light peach-colored skin and had many wrinkles on his chin and forehead. He had a considerably long nose and oily black hair.  
"Emily Otu. American. 27 years old. 1 child and spouse, both deceased. CEO of Ikea."Emily Otu was a chubby woman with a square jaw and crooked nose. She was pale with quite the amount of freckles spotting her face and chest and arms, her long blonde hair hanging a few inches off the table.  
"Martin Ym. Japanese-American. 23 years old. Spouse, no children. Technician."Martin Ym was a frail-looking man with a small frame and minimized features. He had a light sprinkle of acne over his light brown skin. His black hair was cropped and messy.  
"Lastly, Sofia Zuplez. Australian-American. 42 years old. Spouse and four children." Molly finally finished, talking a deep breath. Sofia Zuplez was a slender woman which had an average-sized nose, a mane of mousse brown hair, and dark brown skin that resembled a good tan.  
"Thank you very much, Molly." Sherlock said and flashed her a small smile. The woman blushed slightly and walked back to Greg's side. "But don't leave just yet, I think I still need your assistance." the woman appeared at Sherlock's side once more. The detective eyed the corpses, noting the different hues of skin and variations in features. There was nothing that could physically relate the people to one another. But maybe there was still a connection. "Could you please re-arrange the corpses so that they're ordered by _last _name?" the detective asked. Molly nodded and proceeded to moving the tables with the slabs of corpses around until the requested order was achieved. Now there was an obvious difference. The re-arranging of the corpses showed an order in hue, where Blake Boj was the pale, and the order got darker in shade until it reached Sofia.  
"That racist bastard." Lestrade said as he stared down at the tables, seeing the difference now. Sherlock smirked and John pursed his lips, eyeing the dead.  
"We need more than this!" Sherlock cried, and stomped his foot. He reached up and rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to conjure up some explanation. A minute had passed when an idea came into his mind. "Anagrams." he blurted out. John and Greg faced Sherlock as he tried to apply this idea to the corpses' names. "Think. All of you. Last names, try to rearrange the last name of all the victims so they form words. Keep the order, and a sentence should be made." Molly went to a cabinet and pulled out a notepad and a few pens. She tore off four pages and scrawled the last names of the six victims on each paper. She then handed each person one, along with a writing utensil.  
"Here." she said as she passed the things out. She then went and planted herself on the ground by Sofia, pondering over the last names. John stared hard at his paper.  
_Boj_  
_Gungrifi_  
_Otu_  
_Wells_  
_Ym_  
_Zuplez_  
John thought for a few seconds and a few names rearranged themselves in his mind. He scrawled the newly formed words next to name.  
_Boj - Job_  
_Gungrifi_  
_Otu - Out_  
_Wells - Swell_  
_Ym - My_  
_Zuplez_  
"I've got four!" John shouted.  
"I've got Daniel figured out." Sherlock stated. Of course Sherlock took it upon himself to solves the hardest one.  
"I've got Sofia." Molly replied. And of course she followed suit, trying to impress the consulting detective.  
"I've got none." Lestrade muttered. The four people assembled around a nearby counter and discussed their findings.  
"What do you have, John?" Sherlock asked. John cleared his throat and announced the words. Everyone scrawled them next to theirs.  
"Zuplez was 'puzzle'." Molly announced. Everyone proceeded to scribble away on their papers.  
"Gungrifi was 'figuring'." Sherlock stated. John wrote in the new additions and looked at the results.  
_Boj - Job_  
_Gungrifi - Figuring_  
_Otu - Out_  
_Wells - Swell_  
_Ym - My_  
_Zuplez - Puzzle_  
"'Job figuring out swell my puzzle?'" John thought aloud, "That's not right."  
"What?" Sherlock hissed, "It has to be!" the detective exclaimed.  
"Just rearrange them. Move 'swell' and place it before 'job'." Lestrade offered. Sherlock shook his head, annoyed.  
"But that messes up the order of everything, the skin hues, the alphabetical order-"  
"Maybe that's the point, the throw off. Just try it." Molly insisted. Sherlock clenched his jaw but nodded.  
"Fine," the detective glanced once more at the page, "'Swell job figuring out my puzzle.'" Sherlock looked up and stared at John from across the counter, frozen like that. The army doctor stared back, unsure of what to feel about this discovery.  
"We've got a trail now." Lestrade stated. John looked away from Sherlock and glanced at Greg inquisitively.  
"And that is?"  
"Antonia Wells," Sherlock answered for Lestrade. "She was the one that needed to be moved, and she's the only one that is not of American descent. She's the only pure European."  
"That hints a connection with her. But then why kill the others, not just simply her?" Molly thought aloud, glancing all around at the others.  
"I'm considering that right now. It could be for the simple sick reason for the phrase to have worked. Then again, the others _are _of some sort of American descent, while Wells isn't. _And _all these people come from the same area. That can't be by coincidence." Sherlock answered.  
"Maybe the killer's trying to make some statement against America?" John offered.  
"But then why kill a pure European?" Lestrade countered.  
"Maybe they're getting revenge. The woman was possibly involved in their life somehow, and they just killed her to get back." Molly stated.  
"But then why kill the others if it was just revenge on _her_?" John asked.  
"Possibly, _possibly_, the killer himself or herself was involved with Antonia, but maybe an American or someone of American descent got involved and took her away from the him? The person wanted to get revenge so they killed off Antonia and then the others." Lestrade stated.  
"Plausible, but do note that the last names are anagrams. And also note that these people, despite them living near the same area, have no ties of any sort with one another. All we actually know is that one of these is a pure European, and the others are of some American descent. At the given moment we should focus on Antonia and see if we find some things." Sherlock said. The others nodded in agreement and the group filed out of the morgue, heading up the steps to where Sherlock usually conducted his research to reflect on everything that's been found.

The group stayed and chatted for a bit, alternating between the case and little snippets of events and other things going on in their lives and in London. When the topic of the case was finally left untouched, the group settled on the topic of the new virus going about.  
"I got my vaccination first thing when news broke of the new flu." Molly announced. Greg smirked and said that he did as well.  
"Sherlock and I got ours earlier today. Beforehand I always wore a face mask. This one," John pointed to the side at Sherlock, "didn't." Sherlock rolled his eyes as the others laughed. Once they all settled down, Molly cleared her throat a few times.  
"Er, did you see the latest reports though? They said that the virus had progressed in severity. People at the final stages are said to have strange scabs or even spores start growing along their forearms and legs. Revolting things like that." Molly shuddered. Lestrade scoffed.  
"Pfft, I heard that the death counts been going up quite quickly. The toll being the virus. And adding onto what you said, Molly, they first start off internal, as bumps and formations that start off small and are thought to be cysts. Then they progress into the good stuff, a.k.a. spores and things like that."  
"_'Good stuff'_?" Molly repeated, "That's anything _but _good, Greg! People die from these things and you tell it off as a joke." Molly finished, scowling. Lestrade frowned and sighed heavily.  
"Geez, calm down. I'm sorry to the virus, which I must have offended so much." Greg stated sarcastically. Sherlock and John couldn't help but laugh at the response, though quickly stopped after receiving the death glare from Molly. The small woman puffed out her chest and stomped her foot.  
"If you find this so funny, then I hope you yourself will catch the virus and have those spores grow inside of you!" The woman huffed, and turned on her heel and marched into the back of the room, disappearing into a doorway. Greg shook his head and motioned towards the other exit door.  
"Never knew small women like her could be such hotheads." He stated a bit more loudly than necessary, making sure Molly would hear. This time John and Sherlock didn't laugh.

"Welp, I guess this is goodbye, at least until tomorrow." Greg announced. The three men were standing outside of Bart's, the night sky empty except for the yellow full moon hovering over them.  
"I guess so." John answered and managed a weak smile. The two men shook hands and then Lestrade moved onto Sherlock. The detective pursed his lips tightly and managed a small smile, but didn't shake hands with Lestrade.  
"Good day to you." Sherlock stated, and waved as Lestrade walked back to Scotland Yard on foot despite the distance. John stood by the curb, flailing an arm in the air until a cab drove by. For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Sherlock and John slipped into the vehicle and shut the door behind them.  
"221B Baker Street." John told the cabby after noticing that Sherlock showed no means of saying anything. The cab sped off into the night.

Back at the flat, Sherlock sprawled across the couch, groaning in pleasure and tiredness.  
"God, am I tired." The detective announced. John raised an eyebrow.  
"First time in a while since you said that." the doctor replied and headed to the kitchen, setting the water to boil.  
"Yes, I know. It's strange." John walked back into the living room to see Sherlock sitting up, his hands covering his face so only his eyes and nose peeked out.  
"You alright?" John asked, plopping down into the recliner and sighing momentarily with comfort.  
"Not sure." With this response John turned his head to see Sherlock now staring at his palms, rotating his hands to look at the back of his palms. "I've just...I've just never been...this...this _tired_ before." Suddenly Sherlock's eyes shut and the detective slumped onto the side of the couch, his arms in strange and seemingly uncomfortable positions. John jumped to life and ran to Sherlock, shaking the man's shoulders.  
"Sherlock! Wake up!" John shouted and continued to jostle the man for good minute or two. Suddenly Sherlock's eyes opened wide, his pupils dilated, and he gripped John's arms tightly. "What's wrong?" John asked slowly. Sherlock stared up at John without saying anything for a long time. Sudden fear and vulnerability flashed the detective's eyes.  
"I...I don't know." The uncertainty, fear, and worry in Sherlock's voice nearly broke John on the inside. Sherlock seemed and sounded so unstable that it wasn't humorous one bit. Beside that, the detective muttering those three words was enough to get John to grow extremely concerned. Never was Sherlock Holmes uncertain of something, no matter what it was.  
"Just, get some rest, alright? It's probably the side effects of the vaccination." John tried to reassure Sherlock, his steady voice faltering near the end. John knew that was a lie; he himself would've been feeling drowsy as well. He wasn't tired or sleepy at all. Maybe there were different side effects for different people?  
Sherlock shook his head meekly and let his head fall on the couch once more, but he didn't release John's arms. After a few awkward minutes passed John felt Sherlock's grip loosen gradually, and the doctor slowly slipped out of his friend's grasp.  
John headed to the kitchen and made some black tea for himself, sipping the liquid immediately, ignoring the way it burned his lips and the inside of his mouth. After he drained the cup of the tea and washed it in the sink, John retired to his room. Halfway up the stairs John heard Sherlock beckoning to him. The army doctor sighed heavily and headed back down the stairs.  
"Yes?" John asked the sleeping detective. Sherlock perked up at the hearing of his friend's voice and the detective reached out blindly to him.  
"Jooohhn. Caaan y-you taaake me-meeee tooo my rooom?" John grabbed Sherlock's flailing hand and the detective gripped it tightly.  
"Er, sure. Just try to get up on your own a bit, alright?" Sherlock nodded in a drunken manner at John and the doctor started to help the taller man up. Sherlock was a bit heavier than John expected, but he managed to sling Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and help the stumbling man to his room. Only after five minutes passed did John and Sherlock finally reach the detective's room. John slowly released Sherlock and he tumbled onto the bed. Sherlock had grabbed onto John's shirt without John himself knowing it as he helped the other man to his room, and when the taller man fell he dragged John down with him. John landed face-first onto Sherlock's chest, but quickly pushed himself off, his face crimson.  
"Joooohn?" Sherlock asked, his voice dreamy. John cleared his throat nervously.  
"Yeah?" John's voice came out unstable and it cracked near the end of the sentence.  
"Staaay wiiith mee." the detective slurred. John cleared his throat once more, uncomfortable.  
"Stay with you as in...?"  
"Sleeeep heeerreee." Sherlock answered. John found it strange that Sherlock was able to answer and process questions towards him so easily, it's as if he was toying with the doctor.  
"I-um, okay? But I need to change into my night garments first, alright?" John asked, choosing his words carefully.  
"Mmmmkay." Sherlock answered and released John. The doctor embraced the freedom and took off to his room. He pulled off his jumper and pants, pulling on a loose red shirt from University and old blue flannel pants. He usually slept with some old pair of shorts and no shirt, but if John was going to be sleeping with Sherlock-  
"Oh my God. I'm going to be sleeping with Sherlock." John said aloud, as if he needed to actually hear it to believe it. Some weird feeling bubbled up within John and the doctor wasn't yet able to understand what it was.  
Almost as if on cue, Sherlock's bellows rang out around the building once more, and John dashed down the stairs nervously. He honestly didn't know what to expect from this night, let alone what to expect from Sherlock in this state which he was in.  
Sherlock was still sprawled out on the mattress, his arms flailing around blindly in the dark.  
"Jooohhhn!" The detective cried.  
"I'm here, I'm here, now stop shouting!" John hissed. He sat at the edge of Sherlock's bed, staring at his flatmate.  
"Wheeerrreee?" Sherlock's arms continued flailing around in the air. John groaned and grabbed one of Sherlock's hands, and the detective immediately stopped and grew calm. He turned on his side and held John's hand tightly. The detective remained quiet, and his rapid breaths slowed until they remained like that. John planned a way to slip his hand out of Sherlock's grasp, but one small movement of a muscle caused Sherlock to stir in his sleep. After several attempts John gave up and knew he had no choice but to sleep here.  
John tried to get as comfortable as possible with Sherlock gripping his hand like he was. The only way for John to be comfortable was if he faced Sherlock, but the two were only a few inches away and it felt unreasonably awkward.  
Eventually John managed to ignore the fact that he was in the name bed as his best friend and he felt himself drift off to sleep. But then John felt an urge to open his eyes. And he did. He didn't know if it was his imagination or the angle of light from the hallway, but John could've sworn that Sherlock was closer to him than before he shut his eyes. John was able to make out the features of Sherlock's face with the light of the hall illuminating it. The high cheekbones and the way his eyelashes fanned out gracefully over his them, the arch of his upper lip that would make women drool, the-  
_What. The. Hell. John._ Perhaps there _were_ some side effects of that vaccination. Either way, things just passed the limit of awkward.  
This was going to be a long evening. John forced his eyes shut, and imagined himself in his own bed, no one holding his hand. Just John, alone. Sherlock stirred in his sleep, and John was brought back into reality. The doctor groaned and stared at the door for a moment. He suddenly couldn't help but steal another glance at Sherlock, yet after looking at the detective in a different aspect, he realized something strange.  
Sherlock was unreasonably paler than usual.


	5. Immune

"John?" A voice called out.  
"Five more minutes, mum." The doctor muttered and turned away from the voice. Suddenly the man found himself being shaken rather harshly, and John flew up into a sitting position, his vision blurry and his thoughts scattered. "Eh, whaaaaa?"  
"John, what are you doing in my bed?" The voice called again, and the doctor whipped around to its origin. A figure came into view but John's vision was still extremely blurry and the man couldn't place a finger on who was speaking to him.  
"Whooooo, _aaaarrre _you?" The doctor asked in a drunken matter.  
"Sherlock. Now answer my question." The voice demanded. _Sherlock? Who's that?_ John thought. He sat for a moment and recollected himself from his morning daze. Then all the events from yesterday gathered together quickly in his mind and John stared at the figure beside him as his eyes adjusted. His vision grew less blurry and more focused and the man leaped back, toppling out of the bed, with the realization that he was indeed in the same bed with Sherlock.  
"_Sherlock_," John paused, his voice unsteady,"Bloody hell." The man panted, and stood up from the ground. He glanced down at his pajamas and grew red.  
"Once again, I _did _ask you something," Sherlock stated, his expression resembling one of a man that was demanding answers, for he was confused. John shifted his weight from one foot to another nervously, feeling uneasy.  
"I, er, don't you remember what happened last night?" John asked, even though it was obvious Sherlock did not. He was trying to stall the other man as an explanation came together in his mind. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed at the response, and he looked away from John, his eyes searching his sheets as if the answer was there.  
"No, actually. I-I don't," The detective said, his voice shaking. The man looked down at the bed, at himself, and then back at John, his confused eyes piercing into Johns, "And I don't understand why," Sherlock paused, "Erm, nothing _strange _happened last night, did it? Given that you were in my bed..."  
"No, no, _no_." John said quickly, though it made Sherlock stare at him suspiciously.  
"Good. Though it's very strange that I can't seem to remember anything from the moment we came home." The detective muttered, his eyes unsure and still confused. It was rare to see Sherlock confused, so rare that John wasn't able to process the fact that Sherlock even _was _confused.  
"Yes, it sure is..." John trailed off, and started scooting out of the room. Sherlock didn't seem to notice and he stared off into space, his gaze away from John. The doctor darted for the door and ran out of the flat, dashing up the stairs into his own. _God, was that weird._ Even weirder that Sherlock hadn't said anything else of the matter of the two sleeping together.  
John burst into his flat, grabbed a towel, and returned downstairs to take a shower. Afterwards the man emerged from the bathroom, a towel draped around his waist. John proceeded to the kitchen to brew himself a cup of coffee.  
The doctor trailed down the stairs and walked into Sherlock's flat, absentmindedly turning on the T.V. and switching to the news channel. John then headed into the kitchen and set the water to boil. As he waited, he glanced at the clock. It was 6:45 a.m. already.  
"_Good morning London! Walt Balterman here, reporting to you from NBN2. Breaking news; the new influenza virus had progressed in intensity and new symptoms indicating early stages of the disease have been reported. There has been a confirmed five stages of the virus, found from recently conducted research. The early stages - the first and second - include symptoms such as having the common cold, experiencing headaches, short-term memory loss, changes in personality and attitude, and/or loss in appetite. The third stage - which is the bridge between the most-severe state of the virus and less-severe - includes symptoms like random physical pains in the abdomen and lungs, inability to concentrate or think, random struggles to complete simple tasks like hold a pencil or a cup, and the developing of strange bruises and scabs along the forearms and calves. The final stages of the virus consist of symptoms like internal bleeding, developing of external and/or internal spores and cysts, complete change in personality or mood, complete denial of eating or drinking, and finally, death. If any of these symptoms are recognized among some, it is highly recommended that you are sent to quarantine. It is mandatory that you go to quarantine if you start developing third stage symptoms. Be sure to wear face masks and get those vaccinations! Those which get at least two doses of the vaccination are completely immune from the virus, those which get none are 94% more likely to catch it. Do note that once someone reaches the mid-third or fourth stage of the virus, there is no cure that is yet in our reach-"  
_John switched the T.V. off, extremely unsettled by these updates on the virus.  
Sherlock casually strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a newspaper off the counter.  
"Good morning, Josh," The detective said quietly. _Josh?_ John thought to himself, and stared at Sherlock. The detective tensed up suddenly and looked up from the newspaper.  
"Josh?"  
"_John. _I said John," Sherlock said quickly, "_John._" He repeated as if to convince himself more than his flatmate. The detective peered down at the newspaper again, trying to seem casual, but his eyes were alert and he was wearing a panicked look. John gaped at Sherlock, though quickly shut his mouth to avoid stares. Sherlock did _not _say John, the army doctor knew what he had heard. The report suddenly flashed in John's mind, every exact word. '_Short-term memory loss.'_  
"Jesus Christ," John breathed, and felt Sherlock's eyes on him. The doctor tried to pay no mind to his colleague and turned around to pour the boiled water into a prepared cup of coffee.  
"So...coming with me to Scotland Yard today?" Sherlock chimed suddenly. John couldn't help but fully turn around and glance at Sherlock. The detective was wearing a wide smile, and it wasn't fake or forced to serve as a distraction from what happened only a minute or so ago. The detective's mood changed so suddenly that it came as a shock to John. '-, c_hanges in personality and attitude,-'_  
"Uh...yeah, I mean," John cleared his throat, "Yes, yes I'll come with you. I've got a day off anyway." John lied. He actually didn't have a day off, but he wanted to observe Sherlock throughout the day because things were starting to get serious with the man in terms of symptoms. John couldn't risk Sherlock getting infected by that horrid disease. But that was impossible; Sherlock got the vaccination. _The doctor herself said one dose was enough. Two was just for extreme safety measures. I had received two because I'm a doctor, and doctors are all required to receive that much since they especially couldn't risk getting infected.  
__  
_"You do realize there's been an outbreak of that new influenza virus, and any sort of work being done outside-"  
"Will leave me prone to the virus? Pfft, hogwash." The detective interjected.  
"Sherlock," John said, "This isn't some mere cold one could catch. There were extreme cases where many even died, and I've dealt with some of them. This isn't some joke."  
"You worry too much," Sherlock chuckled and flashed John his signature grin, "You know that I don't bother about these things," _The flashback ended abruptly, "_'I'm practically immune.'_" John said in unison with the detective.  
'_I'm practically immune.' _The phrase bounced around in John's mind like a nagging bug.


	6. A Suspect

"Great. We leave for Scotland Yard at 1." The detective said, turning back to his newspaper. John nodded, draining his cup of coffee dry. He placed it in the sink and walked past Sherlock, into the living room, and then out of the flat. He dashed up the stairs to his own room and proceeded to pull on a clean pair of jeans.  
John then tossed off his robe and dug in his closet for a long-sleeved shirt. The man found a decent button-down and he pulled it on and buttoned it. He then headed down to Sherlock's flat and he collapsed on the recliner. He switched on the T.V. and searched for programs until he found a re-run of his favorite series. John then leaned back and settled in the chair, ready to be unproductive for the remainder of the morning.

Before John knew it, it was 12:58. The man proceeded to descend down into the main floor. Sherlock was there as well, his coat and scarf already on. When he saw John he greeted the man with an acknowledging nod. John flashed Sherlock a tight smile. John pulled on his jacket and the two men exited the building, heading for the curb. Sherlock raised and waved his hand in the air, and soon a black cab pulled up beside the two.  
Sherlock and John slipped into the vehicle and John slammed the door shut behind him.  
"Scotland Yard." Sherlock said flatly, and the cab drove away from 221B Baker Street.

Lestrade, John, Sherlock, Sally, and Anderson all stood huddled around a large square table covered with pictures, maps with marked locations, papers with phone numbers and names, some crossed off and some highlighted. More papers of every sort were scattered over the whole table, and Lestrade plucked specific ones from different areas off the table. Greg suddenly began to cough, it growing rather violent, but after he had finished he paid no mind to the wide-eyes stares he was receiving.  
"Don't mind me, just a nasty cold," Lestrade said, still not looking up at the others, eyeing the papers in his hands, "Alright, so from all the information we have gathered yesterday, we were able to find witnesses. All of their interrogations gave us enough information and we were able to center on one suspect." The older man finished, and he looked up at John and Sherlock.  
John held back a gasp. Lestrade was considerably pale and had dark circles rimming his eyes. The man looked like he hadn't slept in days and the cough indeed suggested an intense fever. Greg sighed at John's concerned glare, and he scratched at his hand absentmindedly.  
"Jesus, guys, calm down. I must have caught a cold after I walked home yesterday. That's all." Lestrade groaned, and scratched at his hand again. John's eyes flickered down at Greg's hand and he noticed a red patch of skin that differed in color and general appearance from the remainder of Lestrade's hand. It resembled a scab and small bump at the same time.  
"Did you get it checked out?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows furrowed and his expression resembling worry. Lestrade waved Sherlock off, annoyed. The man cleared his throat.  
"Why would I? I've started taking some medicine. Its been helping." Lestrade muttered, and again he eyed the papers in his hands. John bit the side of his cheek nervously. Lestrade never got this angry, or at least, not so quickly. But he didn't want to say anything.  
"Anyways," Sally Donovan stated, "The suspect Greg was referring to is Neo Bats. He was spotted by several witnesses before Antonia's death. He's surprisingly got no criminal record. The name he was born with, however, was William McAbee. He's 39, and is from Hammersmith." Donovan finished, and picked up a few pictures from the table, handing them to Sherlock reluctantly. John paid no mind to the photos, despite the fact that Sherlock was holding out a few to his colleague. The doctor was staring off into space, his mind stirring in frustration at the name 'William McAbee'. He's heard the name before, but he couldn't recall from where.  
"John?" Sherlock asked, tearing the smaller man out of his thoughts. John glanced up blankly at Sherlock, then at the pictures in his pale hand. The doctor nodded in thanks and took the photos from Sherlock, skimming over the images. They all were different pictures of the same man, but from different angles. He was considerably tall, had a hooked nose, and piercing gray eyes. He was slender, and John wouldn't argue that many women would've found him attractive. He had high cheekbones a square jaw, all working perfectly with his sharp eyes and short brown ruffled hair.  
"Any input on why his name was changed?" John blurted out before he realized why he even wanted to know. Sally sighed heavily and bit her bottom lip and looked upwards in thought.  
"Uuum," She thought, "We had an ex-girlfriend tell us this earlier today in the interviews. Something about sibling rivalry and him not wanting to share the same last name as his brother anymore. But the reason as to why he changed it to Neo Bats, no one actually knew." Sally finished. John nodded and placed his hands on his head and started pacing around in his spot. The name 'William McAbee' was nagging at him again, and he found it frustrating that he couldn't put his finger on where he heard the name.  
"Sherlock," John said, and stopped pacing around. The detective glanced down at his flatmate, "William McAbee. Doesn't that name sound familiar to you?" The doctor asked. Sherlock looked away from John and stared ahead into nowhere for a moment. Suddenly the detective's gaze brightened in remembrance.  
"Yes...Yes it does, actually," Sherlock faced John again, and his eyes searched his colleagues, "But I can't remember where I heard it." The detective said frustratingly, throwing his hands up in the air.  
"Didn't anyone go more into detail on this sibling rivalry?" John asked Sally. The woman thought for a moment, and nodded.  
"Yes, a relative of Neo's. He had a brother named Peter, but he was murdered at 33 with one stab to the heart back in 2009. Neo's older than Peter by 3 years. Neo and Peter were already on bad terms before his death. He had his name changed a year before his brother's death. Relatives said that rumors went around saying Neo murdered Peter. There was a possibility, since the actual murderer hadn't been identified, but inspections and tests proved Neo to be innocent. And that was the end of that." Sally finished. Sherlock tensed up at this, and glared at Donovan.  
"Why were we brought here if all of this information was already gathered?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly.  
"Because we've got an idea of where Neo's going to be at 6 today," Anderson announced boldly. He bent over the table and pointed at a man with a thumbtack marking the location of a pub. "Witnesses and recent girlfriends say that Neo's got a habit of going to this old pub every day 6, no matter the day. They say his stays there range from 1 to 2 hours, and he very rarely comes home drunk. This indicates that he goes to some other location rather than only the pub. So, we're planning to go to the bar today and just observe him and his behavior, and see if we might be able to track him to wherever else he goes." Anderson finished, and leaned away from the table. John and Sherlock exchanged looks.  
"It's already 4:36, so we've got around 1 hour to spare. We can show up earlier and try to blend in with the crowd before he shows up. We just go with the plan for the remainder of the time then. In the meantime, we can find the tie Neo had with Antonia," Lestrade said, and coughed lightly, "So you four go on ahead, I need to go to the bathroom. Be right back." Lestrade said, and left the office. John grew tense after Lestrade left. He and Sherlock were left with Sally and Anderson, and the atmosphere grew strange and awkward.  
"So, John, I heard you and the freak cracked a few codes yesterday." Sally said mockingly, now more open with her words since Lestrade was gone. Sherlock's face remained blank, his gaze distant. _Probably in his Mind Palace_. John frowned and nodded.  
"Anagrams. They were anagrams," John corrected with a sigh,"But yes, we solved a few." Sally sneered.  
"Oh, such smartasses, you two, why won't you just date already?" She said, and laughed. John felt himself start to grow hot, and he bet that he was red by now. Sally, unfortunately, noticed. "Aw! He's blushing!" She pointed, and snorted. John bit down on his lip so hard that he tasted blood. His teeth were blocking the man from emitting a whole array of curses at the damn woman.  
"Why don't you and Anderson date? Sexual relations without commitment is uncivilized." Sherlock countered, snapping out of his daze. This time Sally grew red, as well as Anderson.  
"Wh-What?!" Sally sputtered, "We don't have relations of any sort!" The woman spat.  
"Judging by the state of your knees, and the reek that is men's deodorant radiating from you, I'm pretty sure there's something going on between you two which most certainly isn't hugging or scrubbing one another's floors." Sherlock said calmly, his face clear of emotion. John stifled a laugh, and he felt his face go cool again. Sally was crimson now, and she stomped her foot on the floor and left the office. Anderson stayed for a moment, but soon left as well.  
"Brilliant!" John shouted, "Those jackasses needed that." The doctor grinned. Sherlock looked down at his friend and couldn't help but smile as well.  
"You and me both know that they are classified as a word that is much more explicit than 'jackass'." Sherlock stated, smiling wider. John laughed and just then Lestrade burst into the room once more, as if in a rush.  
"Hello again, boys," Greg greeted. John stopped laughing immediately, and he stared in shock at Lestrade. The man's deathly appearance seemed to have disappeared. The dark rings under his eyes were barely visible, and his skin had regained its healthy color. The man didn't even seem sick at all. "Where's Sally and Anderson?" Lestrade asked before John was able to comment on his sudden recovery or the case.  
"They left." Sherlock answered flatly. _The word 'left' was lightly put._ John thought, and stifled another laugh as the whole situation returned to his mind.  
"Oh well, didn't plan on bringing them anyways. It's already 4:48. Shall we get going? There's going to be quite a lot of traffic at this hour, and we still need to get there at least 15 minutes earlier so that we don't seem suspicious. The pub itself is also pretty far away, so we'd better leave now if we want to proceed with plans." Lestrade announced.  
John and Sherlock nodded, and after Lestrade had grabbed his coat one of the photographs of Neo, the three men all filed out of the office and walked down a few halls and a flight of stairs until they finally found themselves outside of Scotland Yard. Lestrade led the two to the parking lot, and he weaved through rows of cars until he came to his Nissan Qashqai. The man opened the door and climbed in the car. John clambered into the passenger seat while Sherlock climbed into the back.  
Lestrade started the car and soon wove its way out of the cluttered parking lot.  
Once on the street, John sighed and relaxed back into the seat. Sherlock stared ahead through the space between Lestrade and John, gazing at the traffic and street lights, his gaze distant and his eyes glazed over.


	7. Drinks

The bar was considerably decent and large despite how small and run-down it looked from the outside.  
"The structure stretches on in the back, probably," Lestrade guessed, and approached the bar at the end of the block with Sherlock and John in tow. Neon lights that read 'Free drinks on Fridays!', 'Low prices; excellent service!', and lastly, 'Martini Mondays!' were posted on the outside of the tinted windows.  
"5:47, Lestrade. Now what?" John asked after glancing at his watch.  
"We go in, follow through with plans." Greg replied, and motioned towards the pub. The closer the threesome got to the bar, the more the neon lights teased the men's eyes. John felt the vibrations of the bass and blaring music despite the fact that he was still a foot or two away from the door. Greg almost hesitantly opened the door, and the men were practically thrown back at the wave of ear-rattling music and shouts of wasted teenagers.  
"This will be a long evening," Sherlock muttered as he reluctantly walked into the dimmed bar. The area was indeed enormous, with enough space to fit a stage with large speakers blasting music, a large bar, and a whole dance floor as well as scattered tables and seats. There was quite a crowd, but there was enough room for John, Sherlock, and Lestrade to weave their way past everyone to the designated area for raised tables and chairs. The lifted seats and tables provided a good visual of the entrance to the pub, and at the same time was just next to the bar.  
By the time the men had settled down into the 3 open seats, it was already 5:54. John relaxed into the cushioned seat and pulled off his coat, hanging it on the back of his chair. Lestrade did the same with his own jacket, while Sherlock remained in his scarf and coat despite it being warm in the pub. John glanced around the bar, at the other people dancing drunkenly on the dance floor with martinis or tiny cups with various colored substances in their hands. The music was deafening, and John cringed as he felt the volume damaging his eardrums already.  
"Do we just wait?" Sherlock asked, though John only saw his lips move. The detective stared at John, then at Lestrade, and realized that the music was too loud. "DO WE JUST WAIT?" The detective repeated, shouting at the top of his lungs now. This time his voice was audible, and Greg nodded.  
"YEAH. IT'S ALREADY 5:55. HE SHOULD BE HERE SOON." Greg shouted in response. John nodded and glanced behind him at the door only a few yards away. The three men had a perfect visual of everyone who came in or out of the pub, so it'd be fairly easy to spot Neo. Luckily, the song that was blaring away ended, and comforting silence settled on the bar. Another song was put on, but this one was played at reasonable volume.  
"Praise the Lord," John muttered, and Lestrade banged his head with both of his heads, cursing.  
"What'd you say?" He asked, and John grinned. He opened his mouth a couple of times as his eardrums popped and began to grow normal again.  
"Nothing," John waved Lestrade off, smiling. Sherlock was rubbing his temples with his long fingers uneasily, his eyes shut tightly.  
"This is maddening," The detective hissed. John smirked and glanced down at his watch. John's eyes widened and his gaze drew towards the door. The chime indicating that 6 o'clock had come rang out from John's watch, and at that exact moment the pub door swung open, the bass of the current song dropping at the same moment as well. Neo Bats stepped into the bar, and he looked exactly like the photograph, except that his hair was disheveled and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn't received any sleep for the past few days. John quickly whipped around in seat and glared at Lestrade, trying to seem casual.  
"You've got the better visual, Lestrade," John muttered quietly to his colleague across from him. Lestrade nodded and John watched as the older man's eyes trailed after Neo. Sherlock had tensed up and was also staring in the same direction as Lestrade, since he too had a visual of Neo, for he was on John's left side and had a sideways view of the pub entrance.  
"He's approaching the bar," Lestrade said quietly, his eyes keen as they observed the man, "He's ordered a drink."  
"Scotch. He's also exchanging words with the bartender. Small talk. Given their body language, they seem to be colleagues or acquaintances." Sherlock added, his eyes sharp and gleaming with interest. Suddenly both Sherlock and Lestrade looked at each other and started mouthing words. John raised an eyebrow but then received a look from Lestrade. John didn't understand but played along anyway, mouthing words like an idiot and not knowing why. Finally Lestrade and Sherlock stopped the act, and they stared at John.  
"What the hell was that?" The army doctor asked.  
"He looked at us," Lestrade answered uneasily.  
"Directly at us," Sherlock added again, his gaze not faltering, "He's aware that something's not right, or at least, that's what it indicates. He didn't look at the others all around, like any normal person would if they were just looking about for no reason. Oh, no, no, he looked right at us."  
"Could have been a coincidence," John suggested, pursing his lips.  
"Coincidence, my arse, that man's onto us." Sherlock hissed, glaring at Neo.

Neo Bats stared at his colleague in front of him as he dried a glass with a rag.  
"What's the situation?" The bartender asked without looking up. Neo grunted and quickly glanced at the table near the entrance to the pub and at the three men gathered at the table.  
"Those three near the entrance," Neo muttered and glanced down at his hand casually, trying to not to seem suspicious.  
"Yeah? What about 'em?"  
"They're onto me, Joe. I need to you to distract them for me for the rest of the evening until they get wasted enough to not see me leave." Neo whispered to his friend. The bartender flashed him a look and then glanced at John, Sherlock, and Lestrade. He quickly looked back at Neo's cold gaze and nodded.  
"And how you do you expect me to do that?" Joe asked, placing the cup down and staring at Neo. Neo quickly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask, pushing it across the counter before anyone could have seen.  
"It's a rare French whiskey found in the small parts of Lyon. Tasteless, odorless, and clear, just like water. I added my own little twist where it barely satisfies the drinker, making them come back for more. Has an alcoholic content of 52%. Should knock 'em all out after 5 to 6 drinks no matter each man's resiliency. Swap it with the water they'll presumably order, since they won't be drinking on the case anytime soon." Neo muttered. Joe gaped at him.  
"52% alcohol content?! Are you mad?! That much intake would send them to the hospital!" Joe exclaimed, though lowered his voice after receiving a few glances from nearby folk. Neo pursed his lips and groaned.  
"It'll just give a man a bad hangover, believe me, I know. Besides, it's not like I haven't caused people to land in the hospital - or grave - already." Neo stated casually. Joe sighed and nodded. And with that, Neo left to the washroom.

Once Neo came back, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade continued to watch him. They all decided to create "shifts" where each person would take turns observing the suspect.  
Throughout the evening, Neo hovered mostly around the bar, but eventually got up to use the washroom or to go dance with some of the wasted men and women on the dance floor. It was already 9:23, and Neo once again got off the stool and strolled off to the washroom.  
"Six," Sherlock muttered. Both John and Lestrade looked at him inquisitively.  
"Six?" John asked.  
"He's had six drinks and yet he manages to walk without a single falter in his step. He's showing the resiliency of a serious drug addict." Sherlock stated flatly, staring at John. The doctor pondered over this for a moment, and then looked at the bar once again.  
"Wonderful. Now, if you all don't mind, I myself need to get a drink. I'm parched." Lestrade said, and slipped out of his seat.  
"Lestrade!" John hissed. Immediately Greg returned.  
"What?"  
"No drinking on the case! We need to focus on Neo and we can't risk distractions," The army doctor mumbled, staring ahead at the bar as well.  
"Since when are you so vigilant?" Lestrade grinned, "Oh, don't worry, I'll only get water. I quit drinking a few years ago anyways." John sighed and waved the man off. Only then did John realize that he too was quite thirsty, only now noticing how dry his mouth was.  
"I think I'll also go grab some water. Care to join?" John offered.  
"Sure," Sherlock said nonchalantly, and pulled off his coat and scarf, hanging them on the end of his chair. He flattened out his usual black button-down shirt and matching pants, and followed John towards the bar, where Lestrade was already sipping water from a glass cup. John sat down beside Greg while Sherlock planted himself beside John. The bartender approached the three men after he had served drinks to a few women. He forced a smile onto his face and greeted the men.  
"Two waters, please." Sherlock ordered. The bartender nodded and walked towards the other side of the counter, filling up two cups with a clear liquid. He approached the trio and handed Sherlock and John their cups. John smiled and thanked the man before he left to attend to other people huddling on the other side of the bar.  
"Let's head back to our table," John said, "If Neo comes back then I personally wouldn't want to be watching him from the side. I don't want to be taken as a pervert." Lestrade chuckled and the three men trailed back to their table. They all sipped away their drinks and relaxed back in their seats. Sherlock, on the other hand, was staring suspiciously at his glass.  
"What's the matter?" John asked, furrowing his eyebrows.  
"I don't know, strange to swallow, that's all."  
"Not alcohol, is it?" Lestrade joked. Sherlock glared at him and shook his head tiredly.  
"No, can't be. No odor of any sort. No taste of any sort. It's just a bit denser than water."  
"Their filters must be bad or something," John offered.  
Despite the full glass John had just chugged down, the man was still thirsty.  
"Is it just me, or are you guys still parched?" Lestrade asked whimsically. John nodded slowly, as well as Sherlock. The two exchanged glances as they slipped out of their seats and went for seconds. They returned with full glasses and this time they proportioned their sips.  
Eventually Neo had come back, and the trio watched the man once more. John sighed heavily, noting that his thoughts were jumbled for some reason. _Probably tired, that's all. _  
The men found themselves returning to the bar each time Neo would leave to the washroom, and they would be barely satisfied glass after glass. By 12:38, the men realized that they had drank 7 glasses of water each. All of them were extremely drowsy by this point, and John had to shake Sherlock awake twice after the detective had fallen asleep, despite the man's slurred claims that he was thinking, not sleeping. John couldn't help but notice how slurred Sherlock's words were, as well as Lestrade's and his own.  
"B-Boys..." John trailed off. Neo had run off to the washroom again, "A-Are you all alrrrrriiight? I feel...funny." John finished, and laughed stupidly. Sherlock chuckled drunkenly and Lestrade slammed the table with his fist.  
"Yeaaaaahhhhh, I neeeed morrree wattterrr though. I'm thirsty." Lestrade spat out, flailing his arms in the air like a madman.  
"Joooohhhhhn?" Sherlock started, confused about what was going on, but his mind was foggy and he was unable to process what he was thinking and saying. "I feeeeeel, weeeeirrrd." The detective slurred, and hiccuped. He groaned drowsily and leaned back in his chair until he was arched over it like a bridge. And with this, the chair leaned back inch by inch until Sherlock finally toppled backwards and sprawled onto the cold floor.  
"Shit," Sherlock spat, and struggled to get up and regain his balance. The man wobbled to the side and one of his shirt buttons became undone. After gaining a sense of what was happening, Sherlock once again joined John and Lestrade as the two stared stupidly at the detective.  
"Are you -_HIC!_ \- alright?" Lestrade asked drowsily. Sherlock clambered onto the seat uneasily and collapsed on the table.  
"Yeeeeeaaahhhh," The detective said, his voice muffled by the table his face was mushed against.  
The current song ended and the oldies began to play in the background. Lestrade's and John's ears perked up in remembrance at the hearing of the song as Sherlock emitted a loud snore. The slow intro resembled the drunken atmosphere, and the bold female voice finally rolled in.  
"I'm a walkin', after midnight, searching for yo-o-o-o-ouuuu!" Lestrade howled along with the woman singing the song. John laughed stupidly and peered at the bar, but instead of one, there were 10 that floated around.  
"What the hell?" The drunk doctor slurred, and he struggled to get off the chair. His failed attempts resulted with his falling onto the floor. Another loud snore came from Sherlock as Lestrade continued to howl and screw up song lyrics. John finally got up and squinted, trying to see reason. Everything was a blur, and the man completely forgot his purpose in coming here. John slumped against Lestrade. "Greg...w-w-what are we do-doing here-here?" John managed. Lestrade coughed and grinned stupidly.  
"Er...N-Neo, right?" The man sputtered. Suddenly John snapped into place despite his drunken state.  
"Christ..." John shook his head, as if that would have cleared it. The man blinked and glanced at the bar, it finally returning to 1, not 10. And after focusing for a moment, John realized that Neo wasn't there, despite him being in his seat only 3 minutes ago. Sherlock twitched in his sleep and somehow slapped Lestrade. Before Greg could react, he himself collapsed on the table, joining Sherlock's chorus of snores.  
John cursed and tried to focus on what was happening. _Neo is gone...did he leave? Find...Neo_. John thought and drowsily looked around the bar, having to blink multiple times as the swirls of colors came into focus. His eyes finally settled on the entrance/exit of the pub, and he saw Neo approaching it at a rather quick pace. _He's...leaving_. John processed, and glanced back at Sherlock and Lestrade. Only then did he truly process the fact.  
"SHIT! HE'S _LEAVING_!" John exclaimed, his words mixing together. The man used the remainder of his will to shake awake Lestrade and Sherlock. The two sputtered and flew off the table, staring around wildly.  
"What the fuc-" Sherlock began.  
"GET UP YOU SWINES, THE SUSPECT IS GETTING AWAY!" John shouted, feeling his mind clear a bit as he felt himself gaining control of his mind.  
"Eh...what?" Lestrade mumbled, staring at John with bloodshot eyes. John tugged Lestrade and Sherlock off their seats, and both collapsed to the floor as they lost their balance. Both cursed but made their way up again.  
"THE. SUSPECT. IS. GETTING. AWAY." John shouted, "NOW PUT ON YOUR DAMN COATS AND LET'S GO!" He exclaimed. Sherlock grunted and his eyes sharpened a bit as he motioned to get his coat. Lestrade somehow managed to pull it on quickly. Once the three had their coats on, John pushed the taller men past the crowd and out of the bar, the cold breeze waking them all up a bit.  
"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded, though his words jumbled together. John squinted as his pupils alternated between dilating and focusing, and eventually the view of man in a leather jacket came into his vision. Neo was walking down the block at a fast pace, and he was already a considerable distance away. John pointed a wobbling finger in Neo's direction.  
"T-There..." And with that, the trio took off, running as fast as they could have as the wind whipped at their faces. Sherlock and Lestrade tripped a few times along the way but recovered quickly and joined John as the smaller man made his way towards Neo. But at that exact time Neo turned around and spotted the three men dashing towards him.  
"Poooolice! Hallllt!" Lestrade shouted. Neo's eyes widened and he turned back around, running farther away. John cursed and pushed himself to run faster despite his burning legs. Sherlock dashed past John and Lestrade, him being taller and faster.  
Neo rounded the corner and disappeared from everyone's view.  
"Dammit!" Sherlock shouted, and rounded the corner as well. But the detective stopped immediately. A few seconds later John rounded the corner, and halted beside Sherlock. The two stared down the alley, and saw that it came to an end in only 9 to 10 yards. There were no doors or exits of any sort. But Neo was gone.  
"Where is hell's name is th-that man?" John asked himself, and stared drowsily down the alley.  
Lestrade finally rounded the corner as well but was too drunk to stop in time. He rammed into Sherlock and John and the three collapsed into a pile of trash bags and broken cartons of milk. John groaned and Sherlock grunted as he tried to get up, but failed in the effort and fell back into the bags reeking of stale foods and feces. John raised his head but saw that his vision was fading to black and spots of color dotted his visual. After various failed attempts to get up, John gave into the blackness and grew unconscious.


	8. Home

John groaned and his eyes flickered open. The intensity of the morning sun made the man writhe in discomfort, and he accidentally kicked Sherlock in the shins in the process. John's head felt bloated, as if he was in an air-pressure-tight cabin. The man groaned again, and found that his voice sounded distant or separate from his body. The doctor's throat was raspy and hoarse from shouting last night, and the man overall felt like hell had broke loose in his body.  
"Sh...Sherlock? Lestrade-de?" John managed to croak, rising from the uncomfortable garbage cushions, his back crying out in agony in reaction. John groaned and rubbed the back of his neck, as if it would help.  
"John?" A voice croaked. John came to recognize it as Sherlock's. The detective was laying face-first in the garbage only a foot or two away from John. "Jesus Christ John, what happened last night?" The detective asked, his voice hoarse and raspy just like the blogger's.  
"Hell, how would I know?" John cleared his throat and winced in pain, "Where's Lestrade?" The doctor asked and looked around with squinted eyes. A grunt came in response a few feet to the left of John, and the man peered down the pile of trash to see Lestrade sprawled on a dirty and torn sheet. He looked deathly ill again, and John shuddered at the sight.  
"Where are we?" Sherlock moaned, and John glanced at the other man as he motioned to stand, though began to struggle halfway up. The detective gripped the side of the trash bin just behind the trio, and used that as support as he steadily rose to his feet. John followed suit and uneasily held the garbage bin until he too was standing, or wobbling.  
"I...I don't know," John muttered, and took a deep breath. He looked all around and saw that the three men were in an alley. Strange, he didn't recall coming here yesterday. The last thing he remembered was chugging down the third glass of water and afterwards everything was a blur. "What was in that water they gave us, Sherlock?" John asked, clearing his throat multiple times and nearly falling over in the process. Sherlock was rubbing his temples with his pale fingers.  
"Hold on...I'm trying to recall how to use my feet," The detective muttered. John raised an eyebrow and received a bloodshot-eyed glare from Sherlock.  
"You're using your Mind Palace to remember how to _use your feet_?" John couldn't help but chuckle at Sherlock's response. The consulting detective shut his eyes and nodded.  
"I've never been this hung over, John. One thing's for sure, and that's that it wasn't water which we were given yesterday." Sherlock stated. John yawned and nodded drowsily in agreement. His nose suddenly crinkled in displeasure.  
"Alright, now that we've got that covered, we've got a much larger issue to take care of. We smell like horse stalls and need a good shower. We need a good capsule or two of Aleve along with that. Let's get out of here." John said, and made his way over to Lestrade as he laid passed out on the sheet. Not wanting to bend over so that he wouldn't upset his stomach, mind, or spine even more, John weakly kicked Lestrade's thigh. The man barely stirred.  
Sherlock groaned and came up from behind John. He took in a deep breath and glared down at Lestrade.  
"GREGORY LESTRADE!" The detective shouted, his voice cracking at the end, the rasp growing worse. John lightly scudded Sherlock in the side.  
"Shut it. We don't need any attention," John mumbled. Lestrade groaned and his eyes slowly opened. The man flew upwards and stared around wildly, taking the hangover much easier than Sherlock and John did despite the fact that he was probably the most intoxicated last night.  
"Where the hell are we?" Lestrade sputtered, glaring at Sherlock and John. "Where's Neo?"  
_Neo. Neo Bats. _John mentally slapped himself. _That's what all this was about!_  
"Jesus, how can you still straight think with all of that alcohol in your system?" Sherlock muttered, eyeing Lestrade inquisitively. Greg shifted uneasily in his spot.  
"Methods. Forget me, we need to get back to Scotland Yard," Lestrade announced, and started to walk out of the alley. Sherlock set a firm hand on the man's shoulder and spun him around.  
"We aren't going back to the Yard. We smell like dog shi-"  
"_Sherlock._" John interrupted. Sherlock glanced at the smaller man and cleared his throat.  
"We are the living definitions of the term 'unhygienic' at the given moment, and the last place we'd want to go is somewhere with people. We need to take the day off and recollect ourselves. We can process the information from yesterday sometime soon." Sherlock hissed into Lestrade's ear. Greg nodded once and the detective released him. The trio proceeded out of the alley and made their way back to the bar.  
"Alright, now, where did I park my car?" Lestrade asked himself as the three proceeded towards the pub. John and Sherlock stopped beside the street once they were a few feet away from the bar. Greg turned around and eyed them strangely.  
"Greg, the last thing you'd want to do when you're hung over is drive." Sherlock stated, his eyebrows furrowed. John nodded and pursed his lips. Greg grinned crookedly at the two and waved a hand at them.  
"Wussies. Don't worry about me." The man laughed.  
"Lestrade. He's serious." John said, eyeing Greg uneasily. Greg brushed off the two men and jogged over to the side of the pub, towards the parking lot. John started to walk after Lestrade, but Sherlock stopped him and pulled him back by his coat.  
"You can't be serious, Sherlock. We need to stop him, Lestrade's not entirely sober!" John shouted.  
"If he's sober enough to wake without experiencing the same conditions as we did, and to run and walk without there being a falter in his step, then he's sober enough to drive." Sherlock replied flatly. John glared at the taller man and groaned loudly, stomped over to the curb, his head throbbing. Sherlock appeared at John's side, unscathed by his blogger's attitude.  
A cab eventually stopped beside the two and both hopped inside. Once they reached Baker Street, John immediately tossed the cabby a few notes, with an extra few as a tip for having to endure with the stench he and Sherlock were giving off. The cab quickly zipped away and the two flatmates practically cried out with joy as they approached the black door with '221B' printed on it.  
John and Sherlock burst into the main floor and dashed up to the stairs to Sherlock's flat. The two carelessly shed their coats and tossed them on the love seat. The two then dashed back to their rooms to grab their towels as an unofficial race had started to whom would make it to the shower first. The two made it at exactly the same time, and they both rammed against one another as they both tried to push through the doorway.  
"God dammit John, I'm the larger mind here, and this is my flat. I DESERVE TO SHOWER FIRST!" Sherlock shouted and tried to push past John, the frame of the door jabbing into his rib cage.  
"Jesus Sherlock, you take _years_! And besides, I'm the one with the better heart, I was a soldier." John hissed into Sherlock's ear as he pushed forward against Sherlock's shoulders.  
"YOU WERE A _DOCTOR_!"  
"I KILLED PEOPLE TOO!"  
"HOW IN GOD'S NAME IS THAT HAVING A BETTER HEART?!"  
"SHUT UP!" John blurted out, and in conclusion both men pushed past the door frame and toppled into the small bathroom. The two glared at one another as they both laid on the floor, and after staring one another down they both broke out into hysterics.  
"_Man _are we hung over." Sherlock stated, and the two burst into another fit of laughter.  
When they both got off the ground, they once again began to determine who would shower first. The men resorted to 3 rounds of 'Rock, Paper, Scissors'.  
John won (2 out of 3), but he realized that he had dropped his towel due to his efforts in getting into the bathroom first. As John walked out of the bathroom and bent down to pick it up, Sherlock pushed him from behind and the man toppled to the floor, his head spinning.  
"What-?" John's question was interrupted by a slam as Sherlock shut the bathroom door. "SHERLOCK!" John exclaimed, and leaped off the ground, laughing. He should have known this would happen. John pressed his ear up against the door and heard the water turn on. Despite this injustice, John felt a wide smile grow on his face. "Dick." He muttered to the door, and began to chuckle.  
Mixed with the sound of running water were Sherlock's mischievous laughs.


	9. Diagnosis

**3 Hours****Later**

A freshly-showered and sober John sat on his recliner, typing away at a blog update on the current case with Neo Bats. Just as he had begun a new paragraph, Sherlock burst into the living space, a look of panic on his face and his phone in hand.  
"John." Sherlock said firmly. John glanced at his flatmate and his stomach immediately dropped at the sight of his friend's expression.  
"What's wr-"  
"It's Lestrade. He's in the hospital." Sherlock blurted out, cutting John off. The blogger stared up at Sherlock with wide eyes.  
"Dear God," John leaped off the couch, lips pursed, heart racing. _I knew it. I knew we shouldn't have let him out of our sight. _John ran out of the flat and to the bottom floor of the building, Sherlock in tow. The two men hesitated near the door, but eventually ran outside. Sherlock was only in his usual suit, while John was in a mere jumper. Neither bothered to grab their coats.  
The cold air and wind bit at their skin and faces, but the two could do nothing about it as they waited at the curb, waving their hands frantically.  
Eventually a cab drove towards them and Sherlock clambered inside, John sliding in after him quickly and slamming the door.  
"Destinat-"  
"St. Bart's Hospital. NOW!" Sherlock shouted, and the old cabbie grunted and slammed his foot on the pedal. The vehicle maneuvered past other cars and the traffic jamming London's streets at over 50 miles per hour, 20 over the speed limit. "I'll pay you twice the amount if you drive faster." Sherlock said. John glared at Sherlock. _He's already at 50, going faster could get us arrested._  
"But sir, _30_ is the limit. I'm already at 56-"  
"JUST DRIVE FASTER GOD DAMMIT, SOMEONE'S LIFE IS ONE THE LINE!" Sherlock exclaimed, and the cabbie yelped and slammed the gas once more, speeding through the traffic until it finally stopped at the front step of Bart's. John tossed the cabbie whatever he had in his pocket and the two leaped out of the cab and ran inside the hospital.  
Molly stood near the front doors, and she leaped with some sort of anxiety after seeing John and Sherlock bolt through the entrance.  
"Thank God you're here! Lestrade, he..." Molly trailed off and began to shake. She was ghostly pale to the face and her hands were trembling.  
"Get out with it already," Sherlock hissed, and Molly immediately straightened up and cleared her throat. Her eyes filled with some sort of fear - she didn't like seeing Sherlock like this. John wanted to apologize for Sherlock's behavior, but he understood the situation and knew the man had his reasons.  
"Lestrade got into a car accident just a mile or so away from the bar you went to investigate last night. He got caught in an icy section of the road and lost control of the vehicle. He slammed into two other cars. There was a semi truck involved, and it crushed Lestrade's vehicle." Molly managed to drill out. John's eyes widened and Sherlock clenched his fists, his knuckles white. Molly noted the tension and sprung into action immediately. "He's in the ER right now...he got admitted 15 minutes ago. He was in the less-populated portion of London, so word spread of the accident only 30 to 45 minutes after the incident. Doctors said that too much damage has been done because of this, and-"  
"Enough." Sherlock said flatly, and Molly shut her mouth. John didn't even bother to attempt apologizing, because he too had heard enough. Molly led the two colleagues down crowded halls and white corridors until they finally reached a set of double-doors. Molly tried to push against them, but they wouldn't budge.  
"They've already started the procedures." Molly said hopelessly. Sherlock scanned the hall and noted the other two doors, one on each side of the double doors. He headed to the one to the right of the double doors. It had no label, but was open. Sherlock bolted through the door and walked into a small room with a bench and a T.V. screen. It was lit with yellow lights that flickered. A large glass panel took up half of the width of one wall, through which there was a perfect visual of doctors and nurses hovering over a hospital bed.  
On that bed was Lestrade. His arms and face was badly bruised and scraped.  
"Sherlock?" John asked, and trailed after the detective. The taller man had already planted himself on a bench and watched intently as the doctors poked needles, tubes, and scalpels into his colleague.  
No, not just his colleague. One of his closest friends.  
"Sherlock?" John repeated, and walked into the room, Molly following suit.  
"What is it?" She asked, then glanced at the glass panel, and grew even paler.  
"The room where we spectate," Sherlock stated, his voice thick with emotion. Molly stared for another moment but then excused herself and left.  
"I'll be at the morgue," She said quietly and disappeared through the door. John stared after her with a pitied look. He remembered how she had wished Lestrade bad health a few days back. She must have been dealing with loads of guilt at the moment.  
The door swung shut behind her, leaving Sherlock and John in the room, staring at Lestrade as he was operated on. John uneasily sat down on the other end of the bench, staring at Lestrade, though not at Lestrade. He was alternating between his thoughts and reality, because he couldn't make sense of either anymore.  
"You told me to go after him," Sherlock stated out of the blue, throwing John off guard.  
"What?" The doctor asked, his voice heavy with anxiety.  
"After waking up in the alley and heading back to the bar; you said to go after him. I didn't listen and even said not to, saying the stupid things I did - that he was sober enough to drive. If I hadn't been the controlling and self-centered ass that I am, then he wouldn't been here." Sherlock replied, and John heard a faint sniffle at the end of the man's sentence. Hearing Sherlock speak in such a depressing and guilty tone made John feel that way himself for constantly bashing the man which was capable of bringing upon himself so much emotion and pain.  
"It is _NOT_ your fault," John said almost angrily, "Don't ever suggest that again. It wasn't anyone's fault, Sherlock. It wasn't your fault that we didn't realize that we weren't drinking water last night. It wasn't your fault that we all ended up in that alley. It-"  
"It _is_," Sherlock shouted and slammed the bench with his fist, "You just don't want to say it. I knew that it wasn't water that we were drinking. Ever since I realized that the density was off, I knew something was off as well. I just didn't want to say anything because I worried that I would screw up the stakeout. Beside that, you _KNOW _that if I hadn't said a damn thing and let you go after Lestrade he wouldn't had gotten into that accident."  
"Oh _SHUT UP_!" John yelled before he could help himself. "I don't even care anymore whose damn fault it is, I just care about Lestrade right now, and you, out of all people, shouldn't be blaming themselves for all of," John pointed at the glass panel, at Lestrade on the bed, "this. At least, not right now. Right now there's more important matters at hand." John spat. Sherlock tensed up and stared at John, shocked by his outburst. He completely took the guilt for all of this either way, but the detective remained silent for the remainder of the time.

Two to three hours had passed, and finally the doctors hovering around Lestrade started to scatter, finally leaving only the man alone tucked in his bed, tubes attached to his arms. A lone tube ran through his nose, pumping air into his nostrils. An I.V. and a monitor were positioned next to Lestrade, numbers and lines indicating the heart rate and various chemical levels in the body on the screen.  
John and Sherlock wearily stared at Lestrade as he laid there unconscious. John's eyes were constantly drawn to the monitor and cardiogram, darkly anticipating the moment it would go silent and remain a straight line.  
Finally, the door opened and a doctor stepped in, holding a clipboard in his hands.  
John leaped off the bench and approached the doctor. The older man flashed him a sorrowful look.  
"And? What is the diagnosis?" John asked nervously. Sherlock continued to stare at Lestrade, not paying John or the doctor any mind.  
"Severe. Three rib cage bones fractured, the ulna in the right arm is broken, the left clavicle is cracked considerably. The stomach had been punctured in three places, but all have been sealed. The lungs experienced massive pressure, and Gregory might not be able to take part in intense workouts for a good year or two. Also, three phalanges on both feet have been crushed. The skull has been found to be cracked in two places of the head from the impact of the semi truck, but both had been mended already." The doctor listed off the things on his fingers easily as if it was numbers, not injuries, he was counting off. Sherlock had now torn his attention from Lestrade and was glaring at the doctor.  
John was at loss for words. Lestrade looked so peaceful sleeping on his bed. It was as if he was resting, not undergoing intense recovery which would last months to years. The army doctor backed up and sat down on the bench abruptly. _This can't be happening._  
"Also, Mr. Watson, there's one more thing. But this is the greatest out of all." The doctor stated formally. John stared up at the doctor, bracing for the worst. "Gregory had contracted that virus going around London." John felt his gut drop even lower than it had, and he began to feel sick.  
"Jesus, no." John cried, and slumped against the wall. _No. Not Lestrade. Not him._  
"We greatly apologize for this, but it's true. After further analyzing Gregory's blood, we found traces of the virus. Using our most advanced technology, we had managed to calculate the stage of the virus." The doctor paused dramatically. John grew angry because this wasn't a play or a show, this was real life.  
"What stage is he in?" John asked wearily, his voice distant from his own body.  
"He's in his final stages," The doctor said. John felt like someone had slammed a sledgehammer into him, for the man was suddenly out of breath and at loss for words, "He's finishing up the fourth. He should be entering the fifth in a few days. We found three spore seeds along the lining of Greg's stomach, but they were dormant. Signs of internal bleeding and malfunction of the immune system have been spotted too." The doctor continued on. John never felt a stronger impact by words in his life. The army doctor ran his trembling hands through his sandy-brown hair uneasily, gripping onto his short strands despite the pain that had begun to start at his scalp.  
"I...I have no response to this," John said. The doctor looming over him pursed his lips.  
"We don't mean to distress you any more, but I must also mention that Gregory must be moved to quarantine right after his operations. The quarantine areas have rehabilitation areas as well, so he will recover and be treated for this virus at the same time. So there is nothing to worry about. Gregory will be held here for another week until his scheduled operations are proceeded with, and he'll be sent off a day or so afterwards. All visitations to him will have to be done through phone and visuals. You may not be in the same room as him so that contamination may be prevented, doesn't matter if you received a vaccination or not." The doctor finished. But by this point John wasn't listening. He was off in his mind, trying to accept the fact that Lestrade was going to be gone in only a limited number of days.  
_No. Not Lestrade. Why him?_  
John turned his head and stared drearily at Lestrade.  
'_Do note that once someone reaches the mid-third or fourth stage of the virus, there is no cure that is yet in our reach._'


	10. Trails

The flat carried a darker atmosphere than it ever did that day. Sherlock and John trudged up the stairs dejectedly and departed to their rooms without a word, both deeply unsettled by the news.  
Only by 8 p.m. that evening did the two emerge from their rooms at the response of a phone call.

**_RING! RING! RING!_**  
John listened to the ringing of his phone on his bedside table, but he didn't stir. He didn't care if it was Mike, or the Yard, or the clinic, or anyone. He was done for the day and wasn't intending on leaving his room at all.  
But eventually, after the chime of his phone rang out 3 times, the man groaned rather loudly in defeat and swung an arm to the side, grabbing his phone and automatically clicking the 'answer' button without glancing at the caller I.D.  
"What?" John hissed into his phone.  
"John?" A familiar voice shouted into the phone. John winced and drew the phone back a bit. "It's Anderson. Look, I know what has happened, but we need you and Sherlock back at the Yard."  
"Why?" John questioned annoyingly. He really was sticking with his plans of not leaving the flat.  
"Because. We've got a trail on Neo." Anderson said quickly. John couldn't help but feel the prick of curiosity in the back of his mind despite the looming depression over the situation with Lestrade. John didn't respond for a good two to three minutes, but Anderson remained on the other end patiently.  
"We'll be there in a few minutes." John managed to say through gritted teeth. He truly was curious, and he needed something to get his mind off Greg.

Sherlock made sure for the third time that evening that his door was locked. The dimmed lights in his room gave off an eerie effect, but the detective didn't mind. Instead, the man stared intently at his reflection in the mirror. Sherlock took in his paler skin and his hollow cheeks. Something was wrong with him for the past two to three weeks or so, Sherlock knew it.  
"_John won't find out, John won't find out, John won't find out,_" Sherlock chanted as he pulled back the sleeves of his suit and piled them near the elbow, revealing the scattered blue bruises and few scabs against his alabaster arms. Right at that moment a wave of pain overtook the detective and Sherlock winced, gritting his teeth. He crumpled to the floor and groaned. The waves of pain had become routine now, occurring for over a week now, only getting worse each time. The pain usually centered around Sherlock's abdomen and partially around his lungs. His mind was what hurt the most however, his brain rattling against his skull in displeasure.  
Sherlock wasn't sure whether the pains were what caused his thoughts to be less ordered, but he for one was sure that something was making them scatter more and more by the day.  
The detective remained in a fetal position and gripped his knees against his chest tightly, clenching his jaw as if it would help ease the tidal wave of pain until it would pass.  
Right at that moment a knock came from the door. Sherlock held back a groan.  
"Sherlock?" John asked, knocking once more.  
"What?" The detective said in a strained voice, trying to make it sound like he wasn't writhing in pain on the floor. His mind rivaled with itself. _Just tell him. Just bloody tell him and it can end._  
"We've got a trail on Neo." _Neo. That bastard's the reason that Lestrade's in the hospital. _  
"Go on then. I'm done with the case." Sherlock spat. It wasn't the pain speaking now, but Sherlock's mind. He truly was done with the case, he didn't want anything to do with the man who had been the cause for his colleague landing in the hospital.  
"Please don't tell me you're angry because he's apparently the reason Lestrade's in the hospital. If it weren't for him we wouldn't have ever found out about Lestrade having the disease." John said glumly at the memory. Sherlock scowled and slowly rose from the ground, the pain subsiding like it always did. The man quickly tugged his sleeves back into place and approached the door. He didn't respond to John's remark and proceeded to fiddle with the lock.  
Sherlock, for the second time that week, had a difficult time with the lock. His slender fingers which usually unfastened the lock with ease fumbled with the metal latch despite how easy it truly was to unlock it. In a minute's time Sherlock pried open the lock and flung open the door frustratingly. He paid no mind to John and brushed past the smaller man.  
"Are we going to the Yard?" John mused.  
"Yes. Let's catch this bastard before he sends another innocent soul to the damn hospital." Sherlock replied menacingly, pulling on his overcoat and tossing John his. The two made their way out of the flat and eventually out of the building. They then proceeded with their usual routine of hailing a cab and the two departed for the Yard.

Anderson and Sally were placed in charge of the whole case since Lestrade had landed in the hospital.  
Sherlock and John were distressed greatly after hearing this, knowing how "great" the relationship the four of them all had. But in memory of Lestrade, Sally and Anderson took it upon themselves to not be complete arses towards the flatmates. And with this, the four got along well enough to get things done.  
"Alright then. We got a trail. A new girlfriend of Neo's who's serving as our 'spy' in some aspect has identified the place to where Neo flees each evening by planting a tracker we had lent to her on him. Anyways, we found that he goes down to the sewage systems and is following some devised path which leads him closer and closer to the exit leading to London's generators. The reason as to why he wants to get to the generators is still unknown." Sally stated, reciting the evidence off of papers she had in her hands.  
"The bad thing is that Neo had somehow gotten rid of the tracker, and we have no current spares that actually work without losing their signal in the pipe systems. The only method we have left is to trail him ourselves and find out the purpose of going down to the sewers each evening." Anderson added.  
Sherlock and John pushed the looming thought of Lestrade out of their minds and focused on the case.  
"Alright, we've got the destination taken care of, but how does this still tie to the six deaths, as well as Antonia?" John questioned.  
"Former love affair with Antonia. Left him for another man. We suspect that he killed her out of anger. The other suspects were picked by name so the anagram would work out. It's our best theory so far." Anderson responded. Sherlock perked up at this.  
"That's just sick. Killing people so a riddle would work?" John spat out. Sherlock pursed his lips nervously.  
"There's one more thing, John," Sherlock whispered. John turned around and glanced up at his friend, "I remembered where McAbee came from. That stupid show on the telly we were watching a week or so back. The contestant was-"  
"William McAbee." John interjected, his eyes wide with remembrance.  
"It's Neo. But why would he go on the show?" Anderson asked, his eyebrows furrowed.  
"I know why," Sally stated, "I found out more about that sibling rivalry between William, I mean _Neo_, and Peter. It turns out that a year or so before his death, Peter went on the show under William's (Neo's) name. He dressed up and used methods of makeup and such to look like the swine he did, and made a fool of Neo since everyone thought it was him that actually went on the show and looked like that. This heated up the rivalry, and William had his name changed to Neo a few weeks after the incident to avoid further embarrassment and so that he wouldn't share the same last name as his sibling. Only months later Peter turned up dead. The reason as to why Peter even did what he did is still unknown. The only thing which the relatives admitted to and knew was the incident itself."  
"That clears up things for the sibling rivalry, but I still don't see the connection this has with Antonia and the other victims." John announced. Sherlock glared at the man for a moment before shouting in realization.  
"Holy. Shit. John, hand me a paper and pen, _NOW_." The detective ordered. John snapped into action and grabbed the requested materials off a nearby desk. Sherlock snatched it out of the man's hand and wrote down 'Neo Bats'. He started to scratch out and rearrange the words until he came up with a new phrase.  
"'One stab'." Sherlock announced, revealing the anagram within the name. Sally slapped a hand over her mouth and John felt his mouth droop open.  
"One stab was what killed Peter." John said quickly. "Neo _was _his killer, after all."  
"The idiot changed his name in pride of something he would accomplish; killing the sibling that had brought upon his embarrassment and damage to identity. That was his greatest mistake," Sherlock deducted. He then stopped and thought for a moment before the gears in his mind started turning once more, "Sally, get a background check on Peter, _now._" The woman nodded once and dashed to a desk cluttered with papers and folders, searching through the contents until she got a file for Peter.  
"There isn't much since we weren't focusing on him, so I'd need to do another round of interviews. I'll depart in a moment to take care of that. You three, in the meantime, can trail after Neo tonight. It's already 8:45 anyways. The faster we get to the bottom of this, the better." Sally stated flatly, grabbing the nearly-empty file, a notepad, and pencil before leaving the office.  
Anderson shifted uncomfortably in his spot and started slowly backing away towards the office exit.  
"How about you two take care of things? I'll go with Sally. We need less people crawling away in those sewers anyways." Anderson suggested, and left the office before John or Sherlock could have responded.  
The two stood there for a moment before they snapped into action once more. Sherlock sighed and glanced down at John.  
"Guess it's just the two of us." Sherlock said flatly. John nodded and motioned towards the door.  
"As always." John responded.


	11. Injection

After leaving the Yard, Sherlock and John slipped into a cab and had it drive them to a certain curb at Sherlock's orders. The two got out of the cab and John tossed a few notes into the passenger seat before jogging onto the sidewalk. Sherlock explained that just a block or so away from the official sewage system entrance was an alley which would lead to an old trapdoor.  
"It used to be an emergency escape route to enter and exit the sewers. But near the 1990's it was shut off and barricaded since drug dealers and homeless people found their way into the sewers and started tainting the waters with natural waste and drugs. If my theories about Neo are correct, then the entrance should have been unlocked and merely covered up to avoid the suspicion." Sherlock stated flatly, and made his way down the pavement, John at his side.  
"It's already 9. Neo should be in the sewers by now." John said, looking up at Sherlock. The moonlight shined down eerily upon the two as they walked down the block. No people walked along the sidewalks. The only signs of life were Sherlock and John, as well as the occasional car that passed by.  
"Yes, I know. That's why we need to get in there quickly if we want to find anything," Sherlock noted, and hurried up his pace. The two turned the corner and into the alley, and immediately stopped. Just beside the entrance sat a hooded homeless man which held a suspicious bag of white powder. Sherlock pushed John back and disappeared behind the corner, his eyes wide. "Shit." He hissed, and John sighed heavily.  
"Who knows how long it'll be until the bastard will leave?" John groaned. Sherlock shrugged and thought hard. After a moment or so of thinking, Sherlock's mouth turned into a smile of triumph. He looked down at an expectant John, a gleam in his eyes indicating that he's concocted a brilliant plan.  
"John, do you have your badge and gun?" Sherlock asked, and nearly jumped with joy when his colleague hesitantly nodded.

"Are you _sure _this will work?" John asked for the fifth time. Sherlock adjusted his coat collar and nodded.  
"Positive." Sherlock grinned and held his hand open. John pursed his lips and handed Sherlock his police badge. John pulled the gun out of his pocket and gripped it in his hands. Both took a deep breath and then sprung out from behind the corner and began to run towards the homeless man huddled near the entrance, whose nose was now brimmed with the white powder.  
"THIS IS THE POLICE! DROP THE BAG AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!" John shouted loudly, pointing the gun at the man. Sherlock took out the badge and flashed it at the man. Immediately, the man sprung to life and leaped upwards, stuffing the white bag into his tattered hoodie pocket. He raised his hands immediately but remained silent.  
Sherlock and John approached the man, but his face wasn't visible. The taller buildings cut off the light from the moon, and the three men were in partial darkness.  
"I-I didn't _dooo _anything, Mr. Policeman." The man whined, obviously high.  
"SHUT UP!" Sherlock shouted, and the man stopped whining. John stifled a grin and cleared his throat, not lowering the gun.  
"I'll give you to the count of THREE to give me the bag." John commanded. The homeless man didn't protest and pulled out the bag.  
"Give it to me," Sherlock ordered, and the man quickly tossed him the bag. The detective caught it and stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. "Now get out of here."  
The homeless man stared at the two men in disbelief.  
"What?" He asked, unable to believe what Sherlock had said.  
"You heard him. Get out of here, and stay away from this place. I don't ever want to see your face here again." John hissed. The homeless man stood still for a moment, hesitant, and took a step forward.  
"ARE YOU WAITING UNTIL I CHANGE MY DAMN MIND?! GO!" Sherlock exclaimed. The man took off immediately, disappearing around the corner once he reached the end of the alley. Sherlock and John stood silent for a moment, and once there were sure the man had run off for good, they both burst into hysterics.  
"That was GENIUS!" John laughed, gripping his sides. Sherlock smiled smugly and laughed as well.  
"I told you it would work." The detective grinned. After the two flatmates recollected themselves, they sighed and let the laughter out of their system for good.  
"Alright, back to business then." John said once he had recovered from the laughing fit. At the same time, his stomach grumbled with displeasure. "Dammit." The man groaned. Sherlock smirked and headed up the alley, towards the corner where they devised their plan. John followed behind, confused.  
"Sam's Sub Sandwiches is just a few shops down. Go get yourself something quickly and meet me down here in 10 minutes again. I'll stay here in the meantime." Sherlock stated, pointing a slender finger down the sidewalk. John stared up at Sherlock with wide eyes. Strange that Sherlock, out of all people, would actually take time out of a case to let John eat. But John didn't question the detective and simply thanked him. He then took off, leaving Sherlock alone.

Sherlock leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets, his back to the alley and the other half of the sidewalk. He watched as John ran down and came to the shop, finally disappearing behind the door. The detective then took it upon himself to think over the case and events of the evening. He then recalled he still had the bag of drugs in his pocket. The detective quickly took it out and stared at the half-full plastic bag. Sherlock glared at the contents under the light of the streetlamp, and felt his mouth drop open after realizing that the substance resembled something completely different than drugs.  
Sherlock opened the bag and dipped two fingers into the powder. He took them out and rubbed the powder between his thumb and index finger. After feeling the roughness and texture of the powder, Sherlock's thoughts were confirmed. This was chalk, not cocaine or anything of the sort. _Why would a person take it upon themselves to act high and pretend that they had a bag of drugs?_ Sherlock asked himself, even though he knew the answer. _To distract you._ Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he stared down at the package.  
"Why distract us?" Sherlock asked aloud, knowing that there was no around to hear him anyway.  
The detective motioned to slip the bag back into his pocket, but before he could have his arm was tugged back harshly. The detective shouted in surprise and felt a hand close around his mouth. Sherlock was pulled back into the alley, out of sight. The man was turned around and pinned against the wall by the throat. He dropped the bag and tried to make sense of what was happening. The arm pinning Sherlock against the wall slowly ascended, and the detective was forced to stand on his toes to avoid getting strangled completely. Sherlock strained his eyes to adjust and see who had confronted him. His vision finally cleared and his eyes got a view of his assaulter. It was Neo. _Oh. That's why._  
Sherlock grew tense and began writhing against Neo's grip on his throat.  
"If you continue, I _will _kill you." Neo hissed, his voice cold. His eyes held the look of murder, and Sherlock automatically stopped moving, gritting his teeth to stop the screams building up at the back of his throat. "Good. Listen, _Sherlock_," Neo spat the name. "You've been showing extreme resistance to this virus, and the vaccination helped out. Now, if you're cured, that will ruin all of the boss's plans. And that can't happen. The only method left to get you out of the way is direct injection," Neo used his free hand to pull out a syringe from his front pocket. It was filled with a clear liquid that was faintly tinted green. "Don't worry, you'll just feel a slight pinch." Neo smiled darkly and raised the syringe until the thick needle was touching an artery on Sherlock's neck. The detective managed to scream, but he received a blow to the stomach from Neo's knee.  
"JOHN!" Sherlock managed to yell. Neo scowled and kicked him again. The detective held back a shriek and shut his eyes in pain.  
"I warned you once. This is the last straw. I _will _kill you if you don't shut up." Neo shoved the syringe roughly into Sherlock's neck. The detective squirmed in pain and discomfort, and received another painful kick, this time in the shins. Sherlock's clenched his jaw tightly. He felt the injection, the disease being pushed into him and his bloodstream. The sensation was sickening and the detective used up the remainder of his will to not shout for help. _John. Help. Me._ Sherlock pleaded internally, but he gave up for he knew it was too late anyway.  
Just as quickly as it began, the injection ended, and Neo pulled out the syringe. He slid it back into his pocket, but still didn't release Sherlock. "The boss has snipers everywhere, and visuals in all the places you'd least expect. If you tell John, Molly, Hudson, Anderson, Donovan, or anyone else about this, you and everyone connected to you will be killed. You have my word on that." Neo finished, and pulled his arm away. Sherlock crumpled to the floor and gripped his own throat, breathing heavily. His mind span around wildly and he watched as Neo ran off, rounding the corner and darting down the opposite street.  
Sherlock weakly raised himself and spat on the ground angrily. He began to regain his thoughts and senses, and he took a deep breath.  
The detective turned the corner and leaned against the wall once more. A minute passed and John came out of the shop, smiling with satisfaction. He approached Sherlock and stopped in front of him.  
"Thanks for the mild break, I really appreciate it." John said with a grin. Sherlock managed a weak smile. "Did anything happen in the time I was gone?" The doctor asked, his eyes curious.  
Sherlock wanted to tell John what had happened tremendously, but he didn't take Neo's warning as a bluff and didn't want to end up killing everyone he knew by saying a mere word.  
"No, nothing happened. Let's get going, shall we?" Sherlock said flatly, and turned into the alley. John followed behind him, completely unaware of the burden Sherlock now carried.


	12. Pursuit

John brushed past an overflowing garbage bin and approached the cardboard and pallets leaning against the wall casually, as if they belonged there. Sherlock, however, knew that was the point. John walked ahead and stopped beside the pallets, looking them up and down.  
"Back away, John." Sherlock instructed, and the doctor obliged. The detective then grabbed the pallet and cardboard and peeled it off the wall. Sherlock shifted it to the side, revealing an old and small entrance of about 4 feet. There were no lights, but the moonlight shined upon the entrance a bit and showed a staircase leading down.  
John and Sherlock stared at the entrance, hesitant to enter. Eventually John cleared his throat and took a step forward.  
"Do you have your flashlight?" John asked firmly, glancing at Sherlock. The detective nodded once and stared ahead into the stairwell. John took his out of his pocket and switched it on. Sherlock pulled his own out and flipped the switch.  
Without exchanging any words, the two proceeded towards the entrance, stepping over a bag of trash. John illuminated the entrance and revealed a partially steep descent down. The walls were cracked and damp, and masses of green moss grew in the corners, suggesting little use of the tunnels. John gulped and crouched down a bit, stepping downwards onto the first step. Sherlock followed behind, and waved his light around to gaze at his surroundings. A faint rush of water was audible in the distance, the echoes eerie and loud.  
The two descended down, turning whenever it was necessary. Throughout the whole time, the two got lower and lower, and John couldn't help but think that as they got farther away from the entrance, the lower their chances of surviving were if anything was to happen.

Eventually Sherlock and John reached the sewage systems. The tunnels were considerably wide, and they had walkways lining the side of each wall, a stream of London's waste flowing down the middle. Sherlock leaped off the platform and landed on the right walkway, John following suit.  
The two proceeded down the walkway, the moonlight shining down from the vents above. The churning of water echoed loudly throughout the tunnels, and the eventual shriek of a rat or machinery was heard now and then.  
"Shouldn't we hide underneath a path connecting the walkways and wait for Neo?" John asked, confused that Sherlock kept on going forward. The detective, however, didn't stop.  
"Neo won't be coming here tonight." Sherlock said flatly, and continued walking, approaching a left turn. John grew even more confused.  
"What? How would you know?" John ran after Sherlock and began walking beside him, staring the man down. The doctor needed answers.  
"Anderson phoned me. Said that the trackers revealed that Neo was still hovering around the bar, suggesting that he wasn't coming down here tonight." Sherlock lied. The detective knew Neo wouldn't dare come down here, especially after their encounter. Besides, he had run off, from what Sherlock had last seen.  
John eyed the detective strangely, but then brushed off the matter.  
"What are we doing here then? If Neo hadn't come down today, and won't, what was the purpose-"  
"I memorized his path. A week or so ago Sally had shown us a diagram of Neo's movements - mapped by the tracker - in the sewer systems, and I memorized the path the diagram had shown. The only issue was that it was never actually completed; the tracker's signal was lost, as Anderson had said." Sherlock replied flatly.  
John's eyes widened and the man whipped around. This time Sherlock stopped and glanced down at John's furious gaze.  
"You mean to tell me that we came down here only to follow a path that isn't even completed? Hell, we could get lost! My phone's got no signal either, so we've got no way of calling for help if it would be necessary to. This is madness, Sherlock. I say that we go back-"  
"Trust me on this. I noted the various turns and directions which Neo was heading in, and my best guess is that he's heading to the generators."  
"'_Your best guess_', huh? And what if that guess is wrong? Try to realize that you aren't as smart as you think. There were various occasions where your 'best guesses' were wrong." John hissed, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed.  
"Who said this occasion will be one of them?" Sherlock asked, slightly angered by John's stubbornness. "Look, I just want to find out what Neo's doing down here, and although the location _is _just a guess, that's the best we got right now. Now, we would just go straight, turn right, turn left, take the middle tunnel, and then-"  
"Oh, now would you look at that, Mr. Know-It-All. How about we just head back to the Yard rather than waste more time on some wild guess? Maybe Sally's gotten some more info on Peter. Because for all we know, Neo might have taken a turn in a completely other direction and have ended up somewhere else completely. We can't risk getting lost on behalf of a prediction." John snapped back.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly frustrated. "If you don't want to come with me..." The detective paused for a moment, hesitant to say what he wanted to say. He didn't look John in the eye and raised his voice, "Then you can leave. Get out of here and go back to the Yard, the flat, wherever the _hell _you bloody want to, because _I _for one actually care about getting this bastard behind bars, and I will do everything I can, even if it means taking wild guesses." Sherlock spat, his jaw clenched and his eyes cold. He didn't wait for John's response and took off, walking down the walkway once more, infuriated. _Doubt. He doubts me. What is there to doubt when there aren't any other leads? To hell with everyone and everything._  
John remained in his spot, his face set and his eyes blank. The man, after coming to a mental consensus, finally took a deep breath. John looked up at the wall and listened to Sherlock's retreating footsteps as he heard them start to disappear around the bend in the tunnel.  
"Is this really how you want to end things, Sherlock?" John blurted out in a pained voice, his lips pursed tightly. The footsteps immediately stopped, and John saw the faint silhouette of Sherlock as the man stood in his spot, silent.  
"I'm not ending anything," Sherlock said slowly, his tone menacing, "I'm simply following through with my thoughts. That, apparently, is an issue for you, so I'm going alone. I've handled enough cases on my own before you came along. I don't have problems with solving this one alone either."  
"You've changed a great deal, you know that?" John said flatly, his jaw clenched.  
Sherlock sighed heavily and felt himself grow heavy with guilt. _If only you could understand that it's not my fault. _  
The two parted without exchanging further words. John headed back the way he and Sherlock had come, rounding the corner and approaching the stairway once more.  
Sherlock proceeded down the walkway, the map branded in his mind guiding him around the various corners and turns. He wanted to go back and un-say what he had said, because he knew it was just his frustration and contained anger talking rather than him. After walking for a few minutes, the detective stopped and stared down angrily at the water.  
"God, what _is _wrong with you?" Sherlock asked himself, staring down at the stream of polluted water to see his slightly distorted reflection staring back at him.

John had only taken the first step leading up when he heard the splash of water. The man whipped around and his eyes searched the polluted waters and walkways. He strained his eyes to look down the large tunnel, and after waiting for some time he caught sight of a figure walking down the walkway opposite of his. It was over 200 to 300 feet away, but John knew it was there, and the man feared what was to come. The moonlight caught ahold of an object in the figure's hand.  
It was a handgun.  
Before the doctor was able to process anything more, the figure had noticed him. John watched with round eyes as the figure sped up in pace and raised the gun, switching off the safety.  
John immediately ran up the stairs, trying extremely hard not to trip. The sound of a gunshot rang out and two bullets flew past John, missing him by only a few inches. On the 11th step John halted despite the approaching danger, and his eyes widened.  
"Sherlock," The man whispered. John reached down and felt around his jean pocket, and felt his stomach drop when he felt that he had his gun. Sherlock was unarmed, and unaware of there being someone else down here with them. "Jesus Christ." The army doctor reluctantly turned around and dashed back down the stairs. Despite their dispute, John wasn't one to leave when he knew someone was in danger, especially when that person was his best friend.  
He arrived at the landing once more and saw that the figure was about 75 to 100 feet away, and was now jogging. John quickly ran down the walkway and turned sharply to the left. A series of gunshots rang out, and John winced as he dodged them by a few centimeters or so. The man heard footsteps approaching and realized that he was being pursued.  
The doctor stifled a scream and began to run as fast as he could ever have, turning along with the curve of the tunnel. Another series of gunshots rang out, and there were splashes of water as the bullets ricocheted off the walls. _What's the idiot doing? He's going to get both of us killed if he keeps on shooting in these tunnels._  
John ran even faster when he heard the footsteps only a few 20 to 30 feet behind him. There was no falter in the person's steps. At this rate, John would be outrun in only a matter of moments. Despite this fact, John continued to run straight.  
_'We would just go straight, turn right, turn left, take the middle tunnel' _Sherlock's words echoed in John's mind. The man now regretted cutting the detective off, because once had taken the told turns, he had no where to go. A turn to the right and the left came up, and John quickly took a sharp right and barely missed a round of bullets. Another choice of turns came up, and John took the right again, dashing forward despite his burning lungs. His pursuer was delayed only just a bit after each turn, but he was still on John's trail.  
"She-She-Sherlock," John wheezed and felt his vision begin to grow dark at the sides. He knew he wouldn't last long.  
The doctor reached a division in the tunnel, and he took the left path at random. The man panted heavily, and he heard the footsteps advancing on him as he dashed down the tunnel. There was a maintenance door coming up nearby, but it appeared locked. John decided to not risk it and he began to run past it. Just as John began to make his way past the door, it swung open and a hand grabbed the man firmly by his coat collar and pulled the doctor into the darkness of the room.  
The door shut silently, and John's pursuer ran past it without noticing a thing.


	13. Escape

p style="line-height: 24.479999542236328px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; background-color: #fefefe;" John sighed heavily in the dark of the room. He tried to get ahold of what was happening as he regained his vision and maintained his breathing. After he had recovered from running, John realized that someone had pulled him into the maintenance room, and that he was still unaware of who that someone actually was. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "I heard the gunshots. Are you alright?" A familiar voice whispered into John's ear. The doctor shivered as he came to realize that it was Sherlock. em style="line-height: 1.7em;"Why would he bother helping me after all I've said?/embr style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Yes...look, I'm sorry," John found himself saying before thinking it through. Sherlock remained silent and didn't react. For a moment John thought that Sherlock didn't understand what the doctor was implying when he was apologizing, but then he responded slowly and style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "The fault is mine. I apologize for being such a hothead, especially when it came to a mere prediction. I knew that it was a long shot, yet I kept insisting on it being correct." Sherlock whispered, slightly ashamed for his behavior. John sighed with style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "We were both being stubborn arses. Let's just forget all of this and get out of here." John whispered. Sherlock remained silent again, and John practically groaned despite the fact that the two reconciled only moments ago. "You still want to follow the trail, don't you?" br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / Sherlock remained quiet for a long time, unsure of how to respond. Despite apologizing, the detective still wanted to go on and explore. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Eh...no." The detective managed to say. That was a lie, but Sherlock didn't need another argument. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "I know that's a lie, but we're leaving anyway. There's a man down here that's willing to kill us as we speak, and I personally don't want either of us getting shot." John said. Sherlock sighed heavily and nodded after, knowing that was the truth. "Now, the biggest problem however, is how we get out of here."br style="line-height: 1.7em;" /span style="line-height: 1.7em; font-size: 1em;"_/span/p  
p style="line-height: 24.479999542236328px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; background-color: #fefefe;" "Something I do recall is you saying that Neo wasn't coming down here tonight. Did the great Sherlock guess wrong, or did you lie to me just so I would come with you?" John asked as Sherlock sat poised by the door. The detective shifted in his spot style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Maybe." The tall man lied. Truth be told, Sherlock truly didn't expect for Neo to come down here. It wouldn't seem logical especially after their encounter. The damage has been done either style="line-height: 1.7em;" / John sighed heavily and leaned against the wall. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and after looking around the room, he realized that it was more of a supply closet. The only things in the tiny room were some bottles of chlorine and detergent as well as two large nets. There were light and dark imprints on the floor however, indicating more and less wear of the floor in certain areas. A large network of pipes was found a few feet above John's style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Any idea of what we do now?" The doctor style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Yes. We leave as quickly and as quietly as possible," Sherlock said casually. John's eyes widened. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Pretty simple of a plan for Sherlock Holmes." br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Oh, shut up. It's the best I've got for now," Sherlock said weakly. The man felt like lead ever since Neo injected him. His body felt useless and stiff, and Sherlock himself couldn't think straight. It explained why he'd gotten so easily ticked off in the sewers a few minutes ago. The detective hated having his thoughts scrambled, that's why the man barely ever drank or went out in public. People were a nuisance to the style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Well, if that's all we got, we might as well follow through with plans." John said quietly. He motioned towards the door but was stopped by Sherlock's style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Not yet," The detective said. Despite the toxins in his system, Sherlock was still able to partially process his surroundings. And there was something definitely style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Why not?" John mused, furrowing his eyebrows. He lightly pushed away Sherlock's arm and moved closer to the style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "em style="line-height: 1.7em;"John./em" Sherlock hissed. The doctor waved Sherlock off and dropped down on all fours style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Just looking, what's so wrong with that?" br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "I...I have a bad feeling. Get back up." Sherlock ordered. He stared down at John with a mixture of worry and anger and watched as his friend bent down to peer through the small slit underneath the style="line-height: 1.7em;" / John laid the side of his head on the cool smooth floor and tried to look through the small space under the door. The doctor's vision adjusted and he saw the faint moonlight peering down from the sewer vents outside. But as John's vision focused, something else came into view. A small silver cylinder was resting in the middle of the slit under the door. The army doctor squinted and tried to make sense of what he was looking at, but once his vision focused more John gasped and scrambled upwards in terror. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / The cylinder was a gun barrel. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / Sherlock stared down at John, a mixture of confusion and concern plastered onto his style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "What is it?" The detective asked uneasily. John shuddered and pointed down towards the space under the door. As if in response, there was a large bang and a faint flash of light as a bullet burst from the gun poised underneath the door. It lodged itself into the wall behind Sherlock, missing John's foot by a few inches. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / John leaped up and pressed against Sherlock's shoulders. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Neo's gotten to us." The doctor said with dread. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "Not entirely," Sherlock said, trying to calm John down. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "What do you mean by that?" Sherlock didn't respond. A grin grew on his face and he winked at style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "I've got a plan."br style="line-height: 1.7em;" /_br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / John pressed against the wall and stood on his tiptoes, trying to make sure his feet weren't visible. Sherlock stood opposite of him and was doing the same. The two were poised next to the door, and John was only a few inches away from the gun sticking through the small opening under the door. The plan was going nicely so far. John quickly looked up at Sherlock, and the detective met his style="line-height: 1.7em;" / The two stared at each other for a moment, and then Sherlock began to count down with his fingers so John style="line-height: 1.7em;" / em style="line-height: 1.7em;"5./embr style="line-height: 1.7em;" / John tensed up and pressed back further into the wall. Sherlock took a deep breath style="line-height: 1.7em;" / em style="line-height: 1.7em;"4./embr style="line-height: 1.7em;" / The gun remained lodged under the door, as if waiting for a style="line-height: 1.7em;" / em style="line-height: 1.7em;"3./embr style="line-height: 1.7em;" / John bit down on his lip to prevent himself from emitting a noise of any style="line-height: 1.7em;" / em style="line-height: 1.7em;"2. /embr style="line-height: 1.7em;" / Sherlock met the doctor's eyes once more and style="line-height: 1.7em;" / em style="line-height: 1.7em;"1./embr style="line-height: 1.7em;" / John nodded back and clenched his fists style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "em style="line-height: 1.7em;"NOW!/em" Sherlock shouted. John leaped upwards and landed right on the gun barrel, pinning it down to the ground under his feet. A round of bullets rang out, but they all lodged into the wall. They would have no other destination as long as John remained on the gun. Sherlock immediately sprang into action and made towards the door. The detective gripped the doorknob and swung the door back. Before anything even came into view, Sherlock thrust out his foot into the predicted location of Neo. The tall man's foot came into contact with flesh and there was a sickening crack as the door swung back all the way and slammed into the style="line-height: 1.7em;" / Neo screamed in agony and crumpled to the floor, releasing the gun. His fingers stood up at disturbing angles after colliding with the wall, and rendered the villain's right hand now useless. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "em style="line-height: 1.7em;"JOHN!/em" Sherlock shouted and began to run down the tunnel. The doctor dashed out of the supply closet and broke into a sprint, leaving Neo behind. John quickly caught up with Sherlock and the two made their way through the sewers, the detective leading the style="line-height: 1.7em;" / Before John knew it, they were back at the landing which led to the stairway. The doctor was panting heavily as well as Sherlock, but the detective didn't stop. He grabbed John's arm firmly and practically dragged the man behind him as Sherlock bounded up the steep steps. br style="line-height: 1.7em;" / The two burst outside, tumbling to the floor. Sherlock was breathing heavily, John himself completely out of breath. The two laid there for what felt like ages before John recovered enough to stand up and slide the cardboard and pallets back into place, barricading the entrance to the sewers once style="line-height: 1.7em;" / "We-We e-escaped." Sherlock panted, getting up and using the wall as support. John took a deep breath and began to laugh, unsure whether it was hysteria or relief. Or both./p 


	14. An Unexpected Return

After recovering, Sherlock and John fled from the alley, summoning a cab and sliding in without hesitance.  
"Destination?" The cabby asked in monotone.  
"Scotland Yard. _Now._" Sherlock sputtered out, his eyes glued to the alley. He expected Neo to come out any second despite how bad of a condition he was in.  
"Alrighty," And with that, the car sped off into the nearly-vacant streets. John sighed heavily and relaxed back into the cab seat, letting his eyelids slide shut. Sherlock was restless to get out of the car, his mind was a whirring machine and none of his thoughts made sense. An itching sensation burst out along the detective's arms and legs, and Sherlock fought the enormous urge to scratch or look at the skin. The disease was settling in already.

Once the car pulled around to the curb, Sherlock burst outside and ran ahead. John only just got out of the car when the detective had already reached the front doors. John groaned and caught up with Sherlock. Both walked through the doors and took a flight of stairs leading up to the offices and conference rooms.  
The duo stopped next to a dark office and entered. John flipped a switch and the room flickered in light before finally being engulfed in it completely. On the cluttered table lay abandoned papers and folders. Sally and Anderson were no where in sight.  
Sherlock walked up to the table and peered down at the papers. He caught sight of a neon yellow note taped onto a slightly-dirty manila folder. The detective pried it off and brought it up to his eyes. Written in messy handwriting, was the following:  
_Anderson left at 9:30. My shift ended at 10. I got more notes from a few interviews. All about Peter. Read them all the way through, there's some key things mentioned. See you tomorrow. -Sally_  
Sherlock crumpled up the note and tossed it into a nearby bin, scowling.  
"Their shifts ended? Pfft, my _bum_," Sherlock hissed. He didn't say anything more on the matter, however, and grabbed the manila folder. He fingered through the contents and his face became blank, his eyes turning cold. Before John could ask what had happened, Sherlock practically threw the folder at the doctor. John raised an eyebrow at his friend's behavior but soon directed his attention to the folder.  
There were five family pictures, all showing a progression of age in every single family member the newer the picture was. There were all labeled in correspondence with the person above them. John immediately noticed Neo and Peter. Throughout the years, they got farther and farther away from one another in the pictures. The most recent picture showed the two brothers being on completely opposite sides of the family.  
"The rivalry started young," John noted. Sherlock didn't respond.  
"Continue looking." The detective said in monotone. John didn't protest and fingered through more documents. There were folded college-ruled papers, on which Sally had scrawled notes from the interviews. The most recent one was slightly smudged. John skimmed through the paper. He found out that Neo, prior to the incident and Peter's death, had been caught sneaking out of the house on multiple occasions. Some light had been shed on the subject that Neo had graduated from college at 24 and had a Ph.D in Engineering. John scanned through the notes further and found that Sally had managed to get into the topic of the incident.  
_Sibling rivalry...disagreeing with the other's opinions...constant arguing...occasional physical fights..._  
"There isn't much here to read," John said, pausing halfway through the notes. He motioned to move onto the next one, but Sherlock extended a pale hand and plucked the note out of John's hand. He laid it back in the manila folder, and shifted a finger down to the section John still hadn't read.  
"This portion." The detective instructed. John nodded and pursed his lips. He sighed as he read through. _This can't be so crucial. It just sheds light on the rivalry. Nothing about the incident on the T.V. show. _John read all the way through, but then stopped abruptly near the end.  
The second-to-last sentence was written in bold, probably in the neatest manner out of all the notes:  
**_After further confrontations, William finally admitted that he was sneaking out to see a person he met at the local park. He also admitted that he had had relations with that person without anyone knowing for a year or so. _**  
**_After more convincing and reassuring, William revealed that person; James Moriarty. _**  
**_That was all he would reveal on the matter. Once word reached Peter, the brother was outraged and felt ashamed to have William as a brother, claiming that Will had "embarrassed the whole family by having gay relations". Despite everyone actually being okay with that, Peter took it upon himself to embarrass Will and therefore went on the show. _**  
"My God." John dropped the paper out of shock. Sherlock glared at the man, and when John finally met eyes with his colleague he could have almost felt the anger emitting from the detective. _After more convincing and reassuring, William revealed that person; James Moriarty._  
"Moriarty's behind all of this. I swear to _God _that I will find that bastard," Sherlock hissed loudly. He marched across the room and made way towards the door. "And I will _kill _him." John followed behind nervously. He shut off the lights and closed the office door behind him.  
"Calm down, Sherlock-"  
"I will _NOT _calm the hell down. We're going back down to the sewers _TOMORROW. _We're ridding London of the scum that is Jim Moriarty whether you like it or not!" The detective shouted loudly, causing a few workers to look in his and John's direction as they exited the building.


	15. Midnight

Sherlock burst into the flat, fuming. He didn't even bother taking his coat off and marched around the living room.  
"Sherlock...please, calm down. Just wait until tomorrow and we can-"  
"_NO, FORGET IT. _I am _NOT _waiting any longer so more of London can get infected." Sherlock shouted, ripping off his scarf and tossing it onto the couch. John cocked an eyebrow.  
"What?"  
"Don't you understand? It's Moriarty. He's poisoning London's air, London's water, _everything. _He will _not _stop at that. I know that he's down there," The detective pointed down furiously. "I _know _that he's hiding in the generators with Neo, making up some new plan to get ahold of London. For all we know he's planning to be the next Hitler." Sherlock spat, waving his hands around angrily. John gaped at the man.  
"Sherlock, calm down, I beg you. We can investigate tomorr-"  
"TO _HELL _WITH THAT, JOHN! I CAN'T BLOODY _SLEEP _KNOWING THAT-THAT _SCUM_ IS HIDING IN LONDON'S WATERWAYS TAINTING EVERYTHING! HE'S THE REASON THAT I'M-" The detective immediately stopped, catching himself. John felt the air hitch in his throat. Sherlock had slipped up, he knew.  
"He's the reason that you're _what_?" John asked, adding more emphasis on the last word. His curiosity was burning. Sherlock grew paler, if that was even possible.  
"I-I mean, he's the reason...he's the reason Lestrade's in rehabilitation." And with that, Sherlock fled to his room without another word.

Back in his room, Sherlock locked the door and sprawled on the bed. He took a deep breath and tried to recollect himself. _I nearly told John. _  
"I nearly told John," The detective repeated hysterically. He shed his overcoat and ran his hands through his hair nervously. _I need help. I can't control my emotions or myself...it's maddening. _Sherlock pulled his hands away and found himself staring at them. His eyes trailed down his arms only to see the alabaster skin covered in purple, red, and brown abrasions, some deeper and more gruesome than the other. The skin seemed to be decomposing. Sherlock stifled a scream and stood up. He slowly turned his head towards his dresser and eyed the mirror.  
The person staring back at him was a corpse; a ghost of who Sherlock once was.  
The detective gasped and approached the dresser, staring at his deathly pale skin and hollow eye sockets. The skin seemed fragile and rough. Sherlock, out of pure curiosity, raised a finger up to his face. He scraped the skin in a line down from his left cheekbone down to his lip.  
The flesh peeled off like paper, dropping down to the dresser counter with a soft pat.  
"Christ," Sherlock breathed backing away in panic and fear. His legs slammed against his bed, the headboard butting against the wall. He slapped a hand to his cheek and began to scream.

John stirred his freshly-brewed tea, humming softly to himself. The man was staring a the floor, finding a sudden interest in a speck of lint, when loud and low dongs began to ring out around the apartment, signaling that it was now 12:00 a.m.  
A moment after dongs ended, multiple blood-curling screams rang out from Sherlock's room, causing John to flinch and spill the steaming liquid all over his legs.  
"SHIT!" John leaped up, slamming down his cup as he idly fanned his pants with his hands. After a moment passed, the screams stopped. John didn't have much time to ponder over this before he ran upstairs and changed into a new pair of pants. The burned skin was red and pasty, steaming to the touch. _God dammit._  
John began to make his way down the stairs once more to check up on Sherlock when he heard a loud thud. The man rushed into the flat and saw that Sherlock had thrown his door open. He was fumbling with his coat and managed to slip it on. The man rushed towards the flat door, creating a breeze.  
John quickly caught Sherlock's arm and forced the detective to stop. The taller man whipped around and glared down at his flatmate, his eyes alert and cold.  
"Where in the bloody _hell _are you going?" John demanded. The detective remained silent for a moment. The light caught ahold of Sherlock's face, and the doctor stifled a gasp as a large and seemingly infected scrape came into view, contrasting too well with the man's pale skin.  
"Sewers. I need to deal with Moriarty. _Now_," Sherlock thrust his arm back once and managed to tear it out of John's grip. And with that, the detective disappeared down the stairs.  
By the time John processed what was happening, he heard the slam of a door downstairs. _Sewers. _John's eyes widened.  
"_'SEWERS_'?!" John shrieked. He quickly threw on his coat and made his way down the stairs. _Sherlock's gone mad. I need to get him to a clinic, he's infected, he's got to be. It's the only practical answer. _The doctor dashed outside, only to see Sherlock leap into a cab and have it speed off into the streets. A cab passed by and John shouted at it, running over and grabbing at the door handle before the vehicle came to a complete stop.  
There were already passengers inside, but John didn't care. Sherlock was getting away.  
"_POLICE BUSINESS! GET OUT!_" John shouted. The two women scuttled out in a daze, but before they could fully react John had slipped inside and slammed the door.  
"De-Destination, sir?" The young cabby asked cautiously.  
"Follow that cab ahead of you!" John pointed to the cab, already a few a meters ahead. He saw the silhouette of Sherlock's head getting farther and farther away.  
"But sir-"  
"_FLOOOOR IT!_" John exclaimed, and the cabby slammed down on the gas pedal without protest. The cab sped off into the night, trailing closer and closer towards Sherlock's own taxi. John watched earnestly as the vehicle drew nearer and nearer, and relaxed back into his seat when his cab was driving right behind his flatmate's.  
The cabby was growing uneasy.  
"What now, sir? Please be aware that this is against-"  
"Shut up and follow the car. I'll pay you twice the amount." The cabby grew silent, and for a good half-hour it trailed after the other cab.  
Soon the cab in front drove to a curb and came to a stop, and John grew restless once more.  
He watched as Sherlock exited the vehicle and made his way into the familiar alley leading towards the sewers. John absentmindedly tossed a few notes at the cabby and left the cab, silently shutting the door after him.  
John walked into the alley, trying to be silent. He followed Sherlock all the way to the entrance, and hid behind a trash bin when the detective moved the pallets and looked around to see if there were spectators.  
By the time John looked back at the entrance again, Sherlock was gone.


	16. Surprise

John left his hiding spot and approached the entrance. He silently removed the pallets and left them like that. Not daring to reveal his presence, he didn't use his flashlight as he slowly and uneasily made his way down the oh-too familiar steps. He didn't want to be down here, he never wanted to step down here ever again thanks to yesterday's antics. But he had to. For Sherlock.  
John made his way down blindly until he reached the landing. Sherlock wasn't anywhere in sight, but there was the faint tapping of footsteps echoing in the tunnels. The doctor sighed heavily and silently began to make his way through the waterways, the moonlight casting eerie shadows down onto him and the cloudy water.  
It wasn't long before he managed to catch up with Sherlock, straying behind him by only 10 yards or so.

_I can't let Moriarty follow through with this any longer. He's already gotten to me, yes, but he won't get through to John or the remaining others. He's already taken Lestrade. But he won't take them. Not as long as I'm alive. _Sherlock thought on repeat all throughout his walk in the sewers. He himself didn't fully understand his own intentions. Yes, he wanted to get revenge, or to call truce, but he'd come with nothing except himself. He begged that that would be enough to make the criminal mastermind stop infecting London.  
After coming to a spike in the tunnel, Sherlock took the right path. Another break in the paths came, and Sherlock went left. At the last break, the detective proceeded forward. This tunnel led to London's mechanical and filter systems. He knew that once he would reach the large corridor of entryways, he would have to go all the way to the last room - to the generators - and everything would unfold from there.  
The detective reached the abrupt end in the formal tunnel and stepped into the dry hall. The hall was wide and large in length, but there were no vents of any sort. Flickering yellow lights hanging down from the ceiling were the only source of light.  
The hall was extremely long, reached up to 500 meters in length. Rooms with large circular entrances started and ended at both sides of the hall. None had doors.  
Sherlock made his way to the left and started walking down the hall. He passed by rooms in which filters processed London's water and spewed it out into the sewers. The detective passed by rooms filled with ventilation and processing systems in which natural waste was filtered out of the waters. He passed rooms where humongous humming generators filled a majority of the room and rose up to the ceiling like a massive beast. By this point the detective had reached the portion of the hall where London's various electrical systems were located. A majority of the rooms had burners, furnaces, and generators, all massive structures rising up to about 100 or 150 feet.

John had burst into the hall of machines and filter systems just as Sherlock reached the halfway point to his destination. The doctor gasped and began to walk faster, his steps small taps that were drowned out by the grinding and churning of filters and burners.  
He slowly began to catch up with Sherlock, given that the two were only about 50 feet apart by this point. But Sherlock had now reached the end of the hall. He turned on his heel and entered the last generator room and disappeared from sight. Just as he turned thought, John could have sworn that he had seen Sherlock glance at him. But the detective didn't react in any way, his step not faltering, and he stepped into the room.  
There was a sudden clicking; the safety on a gun being switched off, and John felt his heart stop. _God no. _The noise echoed all throughout the hall, but no gunshots followed after. It couldn't have been Sherlock, for John had the gun, and the detective owned no other weapons from what John knew. This meant only one thing.  
Someone else was in the sewers.

Sherlock could have sworn that he saw John when he looked down the hall just before entering the generator room. But he brushed the hallucination aside. _It's just my corrupted mind conjuring up images. He couldn't have possibly come, he's think I've gone mad. He wouldn't bother to follow me all the way down here to this dreaded place._  
The detective's train of thought stopped abruptly when he heard the switching off of a safety. Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and looked around. He was a in a humongous room, three enormous generators standing side by side against the wall in front of him. He was only 40 feet away from the machines, and the thought made him uneasy.  
There was a whole array of control panels lining the front and sides of the generators, some gauges and meters plastered on the metal of the three large machines, all reading good amounts and levels of electric intake and release. A labyrinth of tubes and wires hung down from above, only a few inches away from the detective's head. Sherlock looked around, searching for the source of the click, and felt his heart skip a beat as his eyes finally settled on the small space next to the third generator. Neo was standing in the space with a smile. But there was another figure next to him.  
Jim Moriarty stood there, a gun in his hand, the weapon aimed at Sherlock's head. The small man was smiling widely, and he playfully hung his head.  
"And so we meet again!" The villain shouted, then pulled the trigger.

John sprung to life immediately after the gunshot. He pulled out his own gun and ran the remaining distance to the generator room. He stepped inside, processed his surroundings for one second, and fired three bullets. Two hit Neo and the man immediately crumpled to the ground, two bloodstains appearing on his chest. Moriarty was hit in the leg and he fell to the ground as well.  
With the two men down, John immediately turned his attention to Sherlock, who lay on the floor, writhing pain. The doctor rushed over to Sherlock and helped the man stand up. It turned out that the bullet had hit him in his right shoulder. It had gone through all the way, leaving a hole through Sherlock's body.  
"Come on...get up...I'm here to help..." John groaned as he helped the detective stand. Sherlock groaned and winced. He continued to lean against John for a moment and somehow managed to recollect himself and stand on his own. John slowly released the detective and made sure he was stable. John glanced at Moriarty and Neo, both laying unconscious on the ground, then turned to Sherlock. "I need to find a signal and call authorities, alright? Stay here and watch the two. Please. Just give me five minutes. Five minutes is all I'm asking." John said quickly, and then ran out of the generator room.  
Sherlock sputtered and coughed, gripping his chest as his heart quivered. _I...I won't make it._  
John ran as fast as he could have. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the signal bars. The faster he ran and got closer to the main tunnel, the quicker the bars appeared. Halfway through the hall, John reached 2 bars.  
"Good enough," The doctor hissed, and dailed 911 with shaky fingers. He pressed the phone to his ears.  
"911, what is your-"  
"This is Doctor John Watson, and I need immediate backup down in London's sewers, the generator room. Please help, I have a friend who has been shot, please, hurry."  
"We've sent for help. They should be there in 10 minutes tops."  
"Thank you!" John cried, shutting the phone and shoving it in his pocket. His heart was racing as he made his way back to the generator room, laughing hysterically. _Sherlock will live. Sherlock will live. Sherlock will live._

Sherlock groaned and made his way over to Moriarty's unconscious body.  
"The poison's got to be in pocket," The detective muttered as he painfully searched through Moriarty's pockets. He finally reached a certain pocket, inside was a vial. "YES!" Sherlock shouted and grinned. He motioned to pull the vial out, but just as it left the pocket, Moriarty's eyes flickered open.  
"_SURPRI-IIIISE!_" The villain shouted hysterically. Sherlock's eyes widened and he began to back away.  
Moriarty pulled out something from his back pocket; a syringe. He quickly grabbed Sherlock's right arm and jerked it down. The man shouted in pain, the bullet wound burning even more, and fell to his knees. Moriarty forced Sherlock's sleeves upwards and brought down the syringe. It jabbed into Sherlock's skin like a bite. The familiar clear liquid inside showed the detective's reflection. Moriarty looked up at his nemesis and grinned. "Have fun in hell, my brother." And with that statement, he brought the plunger down forcefully. He tugged the syringe back out and tossed it to the side.  
Sherlock saw nothing but light and felt nothing but fire and pain. The detective screamed at the top of his lungs and scratched at his arms. He pulled off his overcoat and stood up drunkenly. He gripped his arm tightly and continued to scream. He struggled to get to the entrance but he was too disoriented. The detective reached the half-way point to the entrance but then collapsed on the floor. Darkness invaded his mind and the detective blacked out.  
A minute passed when Sherlock rose again automatically. His eyes were cold and lifeless. His skin had begun to grow frailer and frailer, until large holes began to appear. Sherlock's eyes began to jut out of their sockets, his fingers and arms becoming mere bone and flesh, the imprints of the bones so visible that one could thing the detective was a living skeleton. The detective shriveled up like a corpse, and started to limp steadily towards the entrance.  
"Jooooohn," He moaned, his voice raspy and that of a banshee's.

When John heard the scream, he felt his gut drop. The man sped up in pace and ran down the hall.  
"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, the name echoing all over the sewers. He finally entered the room again, only to see Sherlock marching towards him in a drunken manner. His overcoat was gone, and his skin nearly was as well. "My God...Sherlock..." John backed up against the wall, his eyes wide and his throat tight. He felt around for the gun in his pocket and pulled it out slowly. It shook in his hand like mad.  
Sherlock didn't seem to notice the gun as he dragged himself slowly towards John, his jaw hanging loosely and his now-bloodshot eyes jutting out like mad. Just like a zombie. John began to feel the tears pooling at his eyes.  
"Five minutes, Sherlock. That's all I asked." The doctor shouted, his voice thick with emotion. Tears rolled down John's cheeks as he switched off the safety. "Please. Sherlock. Come back to me." John wheezed, his hand shaking as his finger hovered over the trigger. "Please, don't make me do this. Don't." But Sherlock wasn't listening. The living corpse was dragging it's feet towards John, it's arms outstretched, ready to strangle anything in sight.  
It was too late. Sherlock was gone.  
The bullet rang out before John even pulled the trigger. Sherlock shrieked and fell back, and didn't stir again. The hole in his forehead began to sprout blood. It trickled down the side of the man's head and pooled on the ground.  
John didn't react. He couldn't react. He looked to the side at Moriarty, only to see that the man was lowering his gun. He was the one that shot Sherlock. _He was the one that shot Sherlock._

John leaped from the wall and raised his gun at Moriarty. The man's vision was blurry with tears and fury.  
"You," John spat. "_YOU. BLOODY. BASTARD._" The man pocketed his gun and ran over to Moriarty. He punched the villain right in the jaw and nose. Moriarty winced, but then threw a punch back at John, catching him on the side of the head.  
"HE WAS GOING TO DIE ANYWAY!" The villain giggled, and got punched straight in the face. The man staggered backwards in a daze, and then lunged himself at John. He rammed the doctor in the stomach and the two toppled to the floor. Moriarty pinned John down and pulled out his gun, pointing it at John's head. The doctor spat and shifted his head to the side just as Moriarty shot the spot where his head was only seconds ago. John slithered his leg in between the villain's legs and kicked upwards. He threw the man over his head, at the same time giving him a good kick in the crotch, and leaped upwards.  
"TO _HELL _WITH YOU FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!" John screamed, and pulled out his gun. He shot at Moriarty, but the man rolled out of the way and the bullet missed him by mere inches. Moriarty leaped up and pulled out his own weapon and shot at John. The doctor leaped out of the way and missed the bullet, and the two ran in circles and spent minutes shooting and dodging bullets. Stray shots led to the live wires above being snapped in half, left dangling dangerously at eye level. Some long ones were hanging slumped on the ground.  
John and Jim were getting closer and closer the whole time, and in the end, John found himself in front of Moriarty, the villain's gun trained on the doctor and vice versa.  
"You're empty," Moriarty sneered, gesturing to the gun John was pointing at his head.  
"So are you," John hissed, narrowing his eyes. And with that, the two tossed their guns aside and swung their arms at each other. Moriarty's first slammed into John's temple, and the doctor was left in a daze, but he recollected himself in time to sucker punch the other individual in the stomach. Moriarty rammed into John again, both falling to the floor. The villain pinned down the doctor and punched him in the nose and eye. John spat and swung his arm blindly. He slammed his hand into Moriarty's temple and the man was knocked right off him. John quickly jumped up and started kicking Jim's side, spitting some blood to the side.  
Moriarty somehow recovered and swung his leg across the floor, tripping John so he fell back. The doctor, however, too recovered and leaped on top of the villain, punching him frantically. Moriarty looked around helplessly, but caught sight of a live wire skidding over the floor only a foot or so way. The man grinned and punched John in the face. As the man was left dazed, Moriarty reached for the wire and caught ahold of it. As John motioned to punch the villain once more, Moriarty thrust the live wire straight into the doctor's eyes.

John's blood-curling scream even caught Moriarty off guard. The doctor tumbled to the floor, writhing in pain as his vision alternated between red, white, and black. A searing pain hovered near his eye sockets and the front of his brain. _I can't see. I can't see. I can't see. I. CANNOT SEE._ John shrieked internally as he pressed his hands against the bulgy and bumpy skin around his eyes sockets. Instead of feeling the bump of his eyes, he felt nothing.  
John could do nothing but lay there helplessly in the darkness that had engulfed him, listening to Moriarty's running footsteps as he fled the scene. Afterwards, there was nothing but silence.  
When John heard the shouts and footsteps of people running down the hall, he thought hours had passed. The pain had only gotten worse, and the doctor found himself drifting in and out of consciousness. By the time he felt someone at his side, talking to him, comforting him, John had already blacked out.


End file.
